


So This Is Christmas

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arguing, Christmas, Christmas Shopping, Disapproving Family, Emotional Hurt, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Gay Panic, Getting to Know Each Other, Holding Hands, Hotels, Ice Skating, Lots of meals, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Spa Treatments, Suits, Truce, Underage Drinking, Watford Seventh Year, all the goopies, enemies to idiots to lovers, goopy romance, there's just a lot of stuff crammed into this basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 57,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: Simon Snow hasn't got a clue as towhyhe doesn't want to fight his vampire nemesis to the death. All he's got is a stupid plan to pretend that he and Baz are dating so that The Mage won't make them fight.Baz Pitch has got an envelope bursting with money and a burning desire to enjoy whatever time he can with the boy he loves. What he hasn't got is any clue what goes through Simon's head.The two form a truce and run away together for Christmas, eager to bask in the things the holiday ought to bring...while the threat of war breathes down their necks.Snow's blubbering stops short as he takes in the beauty of the hotel’s interior. The lighting is dim and warm, making the off-white walls gleam. The furnishings are wooden and well cared for, the polish immaculate. I can see several fireplaces at work with a cursory glance. Perhaps most lovely of all is the scent of fresh pine wafting from the various wreaths and garlands artfully hung about. There are little baubles and lights in them. I eagerly await evening, when the hotel surely becomes even cosier and dimmer—I’m certain the Christmas lights will look divine when twinkling in Snow’s eyes.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 235
Kudos: 977





	1. Saturday, December 20th, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be fluffy, 10k-word, Hallmark Christmas movie fic. Instead, it's...whatever this is. Happy Christmas!
> 
> Endless thanks to [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) for the beta work and support!

BAZ

I can smell Snow coming before I hear his clambering up the tower stairs. He must be in a real snit about something—his magic is bubbling thickly. It’s not the flickering haze that comes off him when he’s furious or fighting. It’s this tumultuous boil, more akin to lava than smoke. He’s panicking.

Snow comes barrelling into the room. He stands in the doorway, mouth hanging open as he pants loudly. I don’t look up right away—don’t want to give him that satisfaction. But he just keeps standing there, bubbling and breathing, and I can feel his eyes burning holes into me.

I drag my gaze up from my book and peer at him from where I’m sitting, propped against my headboard.

“What’s gone and left you in a stupor this time, Snow?” I drawl, letting just a touch of disdain fill my voice.

Crowley, he looks properly freaked out. He’s staring at me with wide eyes, brow furrowed, shoulders set—but there’s this glaze over his eyes, making it obvious he’s trapped in his own mind somewhere, gears cranking hard.

I sigh and close my book with a loud snap. It does the job: Snow startles back to something more present.

“Baz—” he gasps, lurching one step forwards. Then he freezes up for a moment before slamming the door shut behind him and rushing over to the window.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with the Mage right now?” I ask him testily. He’s got me genuinely concerned.

“I didn’t go—”

Snow smashes his nose up against the glass of the window, eyes darting around at the grounds below. It apparently hasn’t occurred to him to _open_ the window for a better view—the simpleton.

It had been open earlier, despite the late December chill. Snow and I had been enjoying about as amicable of an early Saturday morning as we ever do. Which by that I mean he was fluffing about the room not too loudly, while I quietly read at my desk, and we both didn’t say a word to one another. Moments like those are the closest I ever get to just … enjoying Snow’s presence.

That is, until a bird came flying through the window with a message from the Mage.

Snow sighed when he read the letter. I peered at him surreptitiously, watching him rub at his hair and grumble under his breath.

“Gonna make me late,” he grunted.

Snow was in the middle of packing a bag for the holidays, because _of course_ he waited until the morning of to do so. (Though, it’s not as if he has much to pack.)

“What’s that I hear?” I snarked, making sure my eyes were back on my book before speaking. “Griping about being summoned by your master?”

“Dr. Wellbelove will be here soon,” Snow grumped. “Why did the Mage wait until _now_ to call me?”

Ever the faithful dog, Snow yanked on his trainers and threw himself out the door to answer the Mage’s call.

I didn’t think much of it at the time—the Mage probably wanted to give Simon some ridiculous mission over the winter holidays. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

But Snow has returned too soon. Too frazzled.

“What do you mean you didn’t go?” I press. I do my best sound bored even so.

“Well, no, I went, but—” Snow smashes his whole face against the window now. Finally, it seems he’s seen what he’s wanted to see—or perhaps was hoping to see nothing at all. He shoves back from the window and fixes those wild eyes on me once more.

“You’re even more unintelligible than usual.” I curl my lip at him. “Either spit it out, or go away.”

“Baz,” Snow blurts, more urgently this time. “There’s no time. Once the Mage realizes I’m not about to show up at his office, he’s going to come _here_.”

I raise my eyebrow at him. “And?”

“And—” Snow’s mouth hangs open as he trails off momentarily. Then he shakes his head and begins pacing. “I _went_ ,” he insists again. “But I heard him. The Mage. Talking to one of his Men. Or a few of them. I don’t know. I don’t really know who was in there, but it seemed like it was his Men—”

“Get on with it, Snow.”

“Right. Right. And...” Snow stops his pacing, instead focusing his energy on torturing his hair with his hands. “He’s going to make a move. Over the holidays.”

“Who is?”

“The Mage!”

I let my head fall back against my headboard, and I give Snow a truly withering look. “My infant brother tells stories more intelligently than you.”

Snow groans and tugs at his curls. “The Mage is going to make a move against the Old Families!” he finally manages to blurt out. “A concentrated raid, a big push, a—a—”

Now I’m sitting up fully, every cell of my body focused on Simon Snow with an intensity I didn’t know I had. (I didn’t think it was possible to focus on Snow more than I already do.)

“A—a—” Snow chokes on his words as his large blue eyes don’t move from where they’re locked with my own.

“A final showdown,” I finish for him gravely.

Snow has a showy gulp, which is all the confirmation I need. I’m on my feet immediately.

“Why are you telling me this?” I hiss. This doesn’t make sense.

“I don’t—” Snow’s panicked eyes finally snap away from mine. He presses himself against the window once more. “I don’t want to do it, Baz. He wants me to be there, go with him, be part of it, help with the raids, be the ... the— I don’t know, the symbol for it, stand there with a sword and look tough and, and, I don’t—I don’t _want_ to—”

When Snow tears his sight away from the window this time, he stares at me with a different emotion swimming in his eyes. His magic trickles off, thank snakes, and his shoulders slump. He still looks scared and haunted, but not with the panic of before. This is a bone-deep fear—a systemic dread.

“I don’t want to fight you, Baz.”

“That’s news to me,” I say, because I’m terminally impossible.

Snow hardly reacts. “I’m supposed to cut you down, and I don’t want to.”

I have to bark out a bitter chuckle at that. I’m not sure what will become of me if I don’t.

“Well, sorry to break it to you, Snow, but I’ve been waiting for this day my whole life.”

Ah, yes, that’s better: my words cause a flash of confusion to pass over Snow’s features, and then suddenly he’s glowering at me in a familiar, beautiful way.

“You really want this?” He advances a step towards me, body all hard lines again, chin jutted out. “You really want a fight to the death?”

“Don’t you?”

“No!” Snow yells like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and _I’m_ the idiot.

I give him an incredulous scoff to prevent myself from rejoicing. “Since when?”

“Always, Baz! Merlin! Yeah, you’re a vampire and a right fucking arse, but I don’t want you _dead_!”

I fold my arms over my chest. I push down the irrational fear that all my emotions will spill out of the shell of my body if I don’t physically hold myself together. “According to you, I already am.”

Snow’s back to tearing at his hair. “That’s not the same thing at all. Stop making this so difficult!”

“What would you rather I do?” I snap. “Promise not to fight you?”

“Yes!”

I sneer wholeheartedly. He really is an idiot if he thinks that’s a realistic option for us. “Oh, yes, wonderful plan. We’ll simply tell the Mage and the Families that we’d much rather not get involved, please and thank you. And then we can ride off into the sunset together. Corking idea, Snow.”

Snow’s face and neck grow splotchy with embarrassment. He begins to sputter, unintelligent grunts of protest breaking forth. His pacing begins anew. I let him take as long as he needs, because despite the grim fate laid out before us, I’m determined to take whatever enjoyment I can out of my last vaguely-peaceful moments with Snow.

I don’t get to enjoy it for long. Snow’s pacing brings him past the window, and he finally catches a glimpse of what he’s been so afraid to see.

“The Mage,” he croaks, all colour draining from his face.

I squeeze my arms around myself more tightly. So this is it, then. I thought we would get to finish out seventh year first, maybe even eighth. I thought I had a few more months of watching him sleep.... 

No such luck.

It’s fine. It’s for the best. Soon enough, the Mage and his Men will be at my family’s doorstep, dragging a semi-reluctant Snow behind them. And if Snow doesn’t have the guts to finish me off, I’m certain one of the others will.

It might not go how I wanted, but it will go, just the same.

So long as I have my chance to confess to him with my dying breaths, I’ll be satisfied.

Snow’s on me suddenly, grabbing my upper arm. I hiss.

“Baz—”

“What are you doing?”

“I think I have a plan.”

“I believe we’ve covered this already—”

“Do you trust me?”

I merely blink at him.

“Baz!” He shakes my arm. “Do you trust me?”

 _Yes. No. Of course._ “Absolutely not,” I sneer.

Snow emits a long groan, then shakes me with increasing impatience. “ _Could_ you? Please?”

I stare at his hand on my arm with feigned distaste. “Yes, _fine_. What is it?”

And then Snow is shoving me back onto my bed and ordering me to “lie back properly.” I grumble, though I do acquiesce—I immediately regret that decision when Snow begins clambering on top of me.

I boggle at him and shove at his shoulder. “ _What_ are you _doing_? _Get off._ ” I sound borderline manic. He can’t do this to me—

“Hush up!” he grumbles. “Just play along, will you?”

“This is not a plan, Snow, this is madness!”

“ _Shh_!” he insists, planting his forearms on either side of my head.

There are footsteps on the stairs.

“This is sexual harassment,” I hiss. I’m bordering on hysterical.

“You said you’d trust me!” he whispers, as well as one can whisper when also trying to yell.

My hand is still on his shoulder. I could push him away. I’m stronger than him. I could do it without the Anathema’s punishment, I’m fairly certain. But ...

The Mage’s heavy footfalls are just outside our door. I can hardly smell him over the panicked stench of Snow’s magic. He’s making crazed, pleading eyes at me.

He’d really rather do ... whatever stupid thing he’s about to do, than fight to the death with me?

It’s nearly laughable.

There’s a knock on our door—three even thuds.

Snow tenses and doesn’t tear his gaze from me. I curl my fingers into the fabric of his jumper ... and I nod.

His mouth is over mine immediately. All my air leaves me in a shuddering exhale through my nose against his cheek. Snow, the consummate mouth-breather, takes quick, shallow breaths against my lips between all the tugging and pressing.

Applying a clinical focus to the details of our airflow is the only thing keeping me from falling apart right now.

There is another set of three knocks on our door, louder this time. Snow emits a sound into my mouth—a frustrated groan—and kisses me more assertively.

Of all the myriad of ways I’ve imagined kissing Simon Snow, doing it to piss off the Mage was never one of them. Which was a missed opportunity, I now realize.

Without breaking our clumsy kissing, Snow fumbles his touch along the bed, searching out my other hand—the one that isn’t currently stretching out the neck of his jumper. Once successful, he snatches me by the wrist and presses my hand to his waist, urging me to touch.

Crowley.

If Snow wants me to grope him, then I bloody well will.

The Mage doesn’t bother with a third round of knocking—he simply barges right in, which is exactly what Snow must have expected. I give him credit for thinking a step ahead for once.

We must make a truly mind boggling sight: our legs are slotted together, Snow’s hands are in my hair and my hand is up the back of his shirt, nearly disrobing him, and he’s grunting softly into my mouth at the coolness of my touch, all while he snogs me absolutely senseless.

“Simon!” The Mage roars as our door slams shut behind him. A thrill of delight goes through me at how scandalized he sounds. _Good, you bastard, I hope this haunts you at night._ (I know it will certainly haunt _me_.)

Snow wrenches back from me with mock surprise. I’m not sure how we’re going to sell this—Snow’s a poor liar and an even worse actor. However, he’s sufficiently red-faced from the misfortune of having to kiss me, so perhaps we can use his mortification to get through this.

“S-sir.” Snow all but squeaks. “We, um— What are you—?”

The Mage looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “ _Simon_ ,” he says again, voice tight with thinly veiled disgust, “will you please ... remove yourself from Mr. Pitch?”

“Oh, um, y-yeah, just—” Snow’s movements are jerky as he leans back from me.

“Careful,” I murmur to him, as sweetly as I dare allow myself. “Watch your knee.” 

Impossibly, Snow reddens further. He yanks his leg away from where it was encroaching on my groin. (A sensation I’ll surely never forget.) His scrambling is a ridiculous affair, but somehow he manages to get to his feet without causing either of us any lasting physical harm.

The Mage is still standing near the door, on the brink. He’s got his hands on his hips, and he’s trying to look anywhere save for at us.

“Um, so, uh, sir, did you—” Snow blathers. I lazily swing my legs over the side of the bed, and because Snow is standing close enough for me to touch, I decide to do so. I run my hands down his torso, smoothing out his rumpled shirt. Snow gulps, loudly. “D-did,”—his voice cracks—“you want to see me, sir?”

“Yes,” the Mage says carefully, daring to look at Snow full on. I make sure my fingers are still lingering when he does. “I sent a bird.”

“Oh, really? You did?” Snow is clamming up. He looks down at me imploringly. “Did a bird come in, Baz?”

I give Snow a cool look, one eyebrow aloft. “I’m not sure. I believe we were a little preoccupied.”

Snow makes a choking sound, but the Mage clears his throat far louder.

“Enough, it doesn’t matter,” the Mage booms. “Simon, come with me.”

“U-um—”

Crowley, he’s awful at this. I take back all the credit I gave him for thinking ahead for once.

“Snow,” I interrupt. I give a nod toward the clock on the bedside table. “Shouldn’t you be leaving with the Wellbeloves by now?”

“Right!” Snow blurts. He fumbles for his half-packed rucksack. “I have to get going.”

“ _Simon_ ,” the Mage bellows, “you will join them later. You and I need to talk.”

Snow faffs about with shoving more things into his bag with little care. “Can you tell me while I finish packing, sir?” I’ve never seen Snow give the Mage a hard time—I barely suppress my glee.

“No, I cannot,” the Mage grits out.

“Why not, sir?”

“Because,” I drawl, “I’m here.”

The Mage shoots me a look at that.

Snow squares his shoulders and gives the Mage a remarkably steady gaze. “Sir ... whatever you have to say to me, you can say it front of Baz, too.”

“What is this?” the Mage asks, narrowing his eyes at each of us in turn. “What’s going on here?”

“W-well,” Snow attempts, “you did always say the Crucible brought Baz and I together for a reason.”

 _Merlin and Morgana_. I’d be more impressed with Snow’s audacity if he weren’t shredding my heart to pieces in the process.

“We can discuss whatever it is you and Mr. Pitch think you’re doing at another time.” There’s a vein along the Mage’s temple that’s far more conspicuous than usual. “For now, I need you to come with me.”

Snow gulps again.

There’s a very brief staring contest between them. I don’t dare move. I don’t dare _breathe_. The entire scene is so stupidly delightful. The Mage’s Heir! Standing his ground in front of his master! I assume he’ll cave any second now, but sweet summer Seuss, it’s a lovely thing to behold.

Snow doesn’t cave, though—he digs his heels in. “I’m not going with you,” he says firmly.

“Excuse me?” the Mage baulks.

“You’re scaring me a bit, sir,” Simon continues, back straight, jaw cocked. “If you have a problem with my relationship with Baz, then there’s nothing we need to talk about. I’m dating him. That’s that.”

My jaw goes slack.

Naturally, a not insignificant part of me doubted Snow’s sincerity in regards to not wanting to fight to the death. It’s what we’ve been building up for all this time. I remind him of it as often as I can. I only went along with this hare-brained scheme because I thought it would be a rather nice consolation prize for my death coming early. (My second, more permanent death, that is.) 

I assumed Snow would yield when faced with the Mage’s disapproval. I certainly didn’t think he had the bottle to truly defy the Mage, especially not so audaciously.

The Mage is far more taken aback than I am, of course.

“This is unrelated,” the Mage says, trying to recover. “We have a mission. I need you to come with me.”

I can smell Snow’s magic bubbling up full force. Foolishly, he was clearly hoping the Mage would have given up by now. All he’s left with is panic.

“Sir, I— Really, I don’t—”

“Simon.” The Mage’s voice is a growl. “Come. _Now_. Don’t make me say it again.”

I push myself to my feet, standing at Snow’s elbow. He’s sputtering, anxiety ratcheting higher. “I’m not going!” he half-yells.

“Easy,” I tell him. I flatten my hand between Snow’s shoulder blades. His breaths are coming fast. “Don’t go off. Breathe, love.”

A jolt goes through Snow. I suppress how much that hurts.

“Don’t touch him,” the Mage booms, fixing his wild eyes to mine.

I give him the expression of cool disdain that I’ve been practicing all my life. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t take orders from you,” I say. I’m sure to keep my voice firm. Steady. Crystal-fucking-clear. “I acknowledge your authority as headmaster of my school, and I bite my tongue and swallow my pride as you and your Men do your best to humiliate my family and upend my mother’s legacy. But,” I spit, “I will _not_ stand down if you force Simon into something he doesn’t want to do.”

“Because it behoves you!”

“Because it _hurts him_!”

My adrenaline is pumping, making all my senses heightened, sharp. It might otherwise be imperceptible, but I can clearly feel when Snow leans towards me, back against my hand.

“Enough,” the Mage snaps. “Simon, I will give you time to cool down. And with that time, I want you to think long and hard about the choices you’re making,”—Snow leans my way more—“and about the ideals we’re working for. Fighting for. The _sacrifices_ we all must make.”

Then the Mage wheels out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The shift in the air is remarkable—Snow’s magic pulls back and both of our postures relax. He heaves a frustrated sigh.

“Well done, Snow.” I finally let my hand fall from his back. He all but leaps away from me at this reminder of our proximity. “What’s step two of this charade?”

Snow blinks at me like a particularly stupid muppet. “What?”

I curl my lip and try very hard not to think about Snow’s—his lips, I mean. How they were pressed to mine, how close he was, how _warm—_ How I hadn’t nearly enough time to take in the details, and how I so desperately yearn to. How I’d like nothing more than for Snow to say _“well, Baz, the next step is more snogging, because I think all that awakened something in me.”_

“The Mage isn’t going to give up,” I manage to say, forcing back the layers of daydreams so eager to clog my mind. “What’s the next step?”

SIMON

I definitely haven’t thought this through.

Does Baz really think there’s a step two?

I’ve not got a step two.

I’ve not got any idea of anything at all any more. If I ever did.

“I’m not going with him,” I say.

Baz’s sneer worsens. Like he’s making up for the few moments of sweetness he just had to force his way through. “So you’ve mentioned.”

“He can’t make me,” I insist. Except the more I think it or say it, the harder it is to believe it. He _can’t_ make me, can he? “I told him we’re dating. He can’t— I mean. He can’t actually— He can’t make us fight if we’re in love.”

Baz looks like he’s about to choke on his own tongue. “We’re _not_ in love.”

“Well, he doesn’t need to know that!”

“Crowley,” he groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “If you’re serious about not wanting to be part of this, then you need an _actual_ plan, Snow. Some place to go.”

“Y-yeah.”

“You can’t go to the Wellbeloves,” Baz says. He’s begun pacing about the room. The slow, steady pace that he sometimes does when he’s plotting. Not the nefarious kind of plotting—the kind when he’s sussing out a difficult assignment. “The Mage will whisk you out of there, and they’ll be more than happy to assist.”

I nod “Right. I know that.”

“If you stay here, he’ll stuff a pillow case over your head while you’re sleeping.”

“The kitchens will be closed, anyway.”

“Ah, yes, the far more pressing concern.”

“Baz.”

He stops. Stares at me. I swallow.

“Run away with me.”

Baz’s eyebrow nearly flies off his head. “Are you mad?”

“I’m serious!” I stomp my way towards him, and he steps back. “It’s our best shot. They can’t drag us into this if they can’t _find_ us. Just until the new term starts.”

“And then?” Baz is nervous—his voice is pitchy. I’m nervous too, but I don’t know what else to do...! We can’t get dragged into this. I won’t let it happen. I won’t hurt him. I won’t kill him—

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe it will all blow over.”

“Oh, yes.” Baz barks out a laugh. “The despot will be so dismayed over not having his little boy soldier by his side, he’ll cancel the whole bloody war.”

I scowl, barely resisting grabbing him. Shaking him. Why can’t he see how bad this is? “Maybe! Fuck. I don’t know! We’re kids, Baz—why the fuck is this on _our_ shoulders?”

“We’re mere months from age of majority, Snow. Besides, the Mage has never cared for your innocence before.”

“Yeah, and your family hasn’t cared about yours.”

“Leave my family out of this,” he hisses.

My brain’s filling up with thick static. What if Baz wants us to fight? The big, final fight, I mean? What if he really does want to kill me?

I can’t let him do that. Not until I’ve defeated the Humdrum and stopped the dark creatures. If he still wants to kill me after that, then I guess that’s fine. But for now?

“ _Baz_. Come on. Please.” I grab his wrist. I can’t do this without him. “Run away with me.”

Baz stares at me in disbelief. “You’re so desperate not to fight that you’d run away with your nemesis?”

“Yeah.”

“I could use this to my advantage, you know.” He tugs his arm from my grip—I let him. “There will be no Anathema, nothing to stop me from murdering you in your sleep.”

I chew my lip and stare at the floor. I have to make sure I come out of this in one piece.

Oh. I’ve got it.

I whip my head up. “A truce, then.”

“A truce?”

“You won’t hurt me, and I won’t hurt you.”

Baz frowns. “I’m never worried about you hurting me, Snow. I’m merely constantly maligned by your stalking and insistence that everything I do is part of a plan to make you wretched.”

I roll my eyes. “ _Fine_. You won’t hurt me, and I won’t do … any of all that rot you just said.”

“It’s not _rot_ , you do it _all the time_.”

“Well, I won’t, all right? _Merlin!_ ” I shove my hand at him. “Shake on it, will you?”

Baz only scowls at my hand. “What is the duration of this magnanimous peace treaty of yours?”

“Fuck if I know,” I grunt. “I don’t know what’s in store for us in an _hour_ from now, forget once the hols are over. I just want us both to _live_.”

Baz hesitates. His eyes flick back and forth between my face and my hand. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I’ll stand here until he finds it. I can’t back down on this. I square my shoulders and set my jaw.

Finally, Baz sighs.

“Very well. A truce,” he relents. “I won’t deliberately hurt you or lie to you, and you won’t stalk me or accuse me of plotting your demise. For the duration of the holidays, to be revisited come the start of next term.” Baz drops his wand from up his sleeve, then grasps my hand in his own. He’s cold. I’m immediately reminded of the feel of his touch sliding up my shirt—

Baz taps his wand to our joined hands. **“An Englishman’s word is his bond.”**

I stare at my hand even once Baz releases it. His magic feels so weird. Penny’s is this thick, delicious sort of magic. Homey. Baz’s is hot, all-encompassing. A fire that spreads through me, leaving behind gooseflesh despite the burn.

I’m still thinking on that when Baz clears his throat. “Well?”

“What?”

He gives me a flat look. “The Wellbeloves are waiting for you, no? You should at least send a bird.”

Fuck, he’s right.

Now I’m the one pacing.

“I should do it in person, shouldn’t I?” I groan.

“Do what, exactly?”

“Break up with Agatha!” It’s like he’s trying to be difficult! (Of course he is. He’s _Baz_.)

“Why? Because you’re suddenly dating me?”

“ _Yes._ Obviously!”

Baz smirks. “Do let me know how that goes.”

Arsehole.

* * *

I throw myself down the steps of Mummers, barrelling past other boys who are lugging their bags out of their rooms. I pretty much leapfrog over Gareth. Good man, he doesn’t even yell at me for it. Everyone’s pretty used to me running off on some mission for the Mage.

Little do they know I’m doing the exact opposite this time.

I run towards the car park, keeping an eye out for Agatha the whole way. Scanning for her gleaming blonde hair should be a good distraction from the anxiety creeping up on me.

_What if this is a bad idea? What if I’m choosing the wrong side?_

_No, I’m not choosing any side. I’m choosing not to choose._

_I wish Penny were here. She’d help me untangle this._

Turns out looking for Agatha isn’t that good of a distraction after all. In fact, I nearly run right past her.

“Simon!” She smiles and waves. I nearly trip over myself when trying to stop before passing her.

“Agatha!” I double over, hands on my knees while I try to catch my breath.

She’s standing near Dr. Wellbelove’s Volvo. I see him wave to me from the drivers seat. I give a weak wave back.

“Where are your bags?” Agatha asks. Not _‘why are you running like a madman?’_

I take another moment to just breathe, then straighten up. “I, um. Agatha. Listen. Um.” I push my hair off my forehead. It’s winter and I’ve got no coat on, but I’m still sweating from running (and nerves). “I can’t— _Shit_. I can’t go home with you for Christmas.”

Agatha’s mouth forms a thin line. “Does this have something to do with the Mage?”

“No,” I say. Then, “yeah. Maybe. Kind of—”

Agatha holds up a hand to stop me, shaking her head. “That’s fine. I don’t actually want to know.”

“It’s not, like, a mission or anything,” I say. She doesn’t look like she believes me—or that she’s happy I’m still talking. “I’m trying _not_ to go on a mission for him, really—”

“Then why can’t you come for Christmas?”

“Well, th-the thing is. I’m, um.” Fuck. I really should have planned what I was going to say before I found her!

Agatha deflates in a way I never see her do around other people. “You know, Simon … it’s all right. Whatever it is you’re doing—or _not_ doing—for the Mage is no concern of mine.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

“And in fact, perhaps this is a sign.”

I blink at her. “What?”

Agatha draws all of her hair over one shoulder. “You nearly always have some place better to be than to be with me.”

“I— No, I don’t—”

“And if you think about it,” she says, glancing off and drawing her hair to the other shoulder, “that ought to bother me more than it does.”

I’ve got no idea what’s happening.

“If neither one of us particularly care to be around each other, then what are we still doing together, Simon?”

“Wait— I— That’s not—”

Agatha sighs and stares at me in a way that makes me clam up.

Is she breaking up with me?

She’s not supposed to break up with me, I’m supposed to break up with her! And she’s supposed to be sad about it, and then once this stupid mess with Baz is over, I can come back to her, and—and grovel! And she’ll take me back, and it will be _fine_ because we’re supposed to be together. We love each other. We’re end game!

“I’m spending Christmas with Baz,” is the stupid fucking thing I blurt.

“Baz?” Agatha looks taken aback, then upset, and then she sighs again and just looks awfully weary. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“ _How_ does that make sense?” I croak.

“You two have always been so obsessed with each other.”

I’ve got _no idea_ what’s happening!

Agatha lightly touches my arm. “I’m glad you two figured things out.”

“No, we—”

“I hope you have a lovely time.” She leans up and presses her lips to my cheek. “Happy Christmas, Simon.”

“H … happy Christmas, Agatha.”

BAZ

Snow drags himself back into the room with a glazed-over expression.

“Went that well, hm?”

“She, um.” He stares at a spot on the floor. “I think she ended it with me before I even said much.”

I raise both eyebrows. “Oh. That’s good.”

Snow snaps to focus at that. “How is that good!”

“Weren’t you going down there to give her some absurdly convoluted story about us suddenly dating?” I defend. “You were able to skip it.”

Snow groans and shoves his hands into his hair. “I still told her all that.” I roll my eyes, and he continues on. “Well, no, I. I said we were spending Christmas together. And she. She kind of. _Augh_.” He tugs on his hair hard enough that I wince. “She said it _made sense_!” he laments.

 _Interesting_. “How so?”

He starts pacing. “She said we’ve always been obsessed with each other!”

My heart is pounding so eagerly, it’s nearly a normal speed. “We have been,” I dare say.

Snow groans louder. “Not like _that_!”

I fix my cuffs. “Look, she could have taken it horribly and burst into tears—would you rather that?”

Snow falters in his pacing. “No....”

“Exactly. So be grateful she made it easy for you.”

He sighs dramatically. “Yeah ... yeah, all right....” Snow screws up his face at me. “Can you believe she said that, though? That it _makes sense_?”

I deserve a bloody medal for how impeccably I maintain my cool façade in the face of Snow’s oblivious cruelty. “You _did_ sexually assault me on my bed.”

“I _did NOT_!” Snow goes so red so fast, I sincerely expect to see steam come off him.

“We can discuss the details another time,” I urge, waving a dismissive hand. “For now, you need to decide what our next move is.”

Snow moans and starts pacing again.

SIMON

Baz sits on the windowsill while I pace around like a lunatic.

“Could you at least do it in a pattern or something?” Baz gripes. “This is dizzying to watch.”

I ignore him and try to _think_ —

We need a plan.

I’ve not got a plan.

 _‘Run away together’_ is pretty vague, turns out.

I’m trying to figure out the logistics in my head. I’ve not got a home or a pot to piss in. And we can’t go to Baz’s home. Penny’s mum would never let us hide out there. Besides, Premal would turn us in, I think. Penny might have an idea for a cheap place we could hole up in. Maybe Baz will let me pay him back slowly.

Baz’s smooth voice breaks me from my frazzled thoughts: “It appears we waited too long to decide.”

“What?” I mumble around the hangnail I didn’t realize I’ve been chewing.

“The Mage is on his way back.”

I frown at Baz. He’s too busy staring out the window to notice. “It’s not like he can drag me out of here.”

Baz turns away from the window to frown at me. “I don’t think he’s leaving you with a choice.”

“What?” I say again.

“He’s brought three of his Men.”

I toss myself at the window, crashing into Baz a bit in the process—he curses at me. Least of my fucking concerns because he’s _right_ (he’s _always_ right), the Mage really is storming his way back to Mummers with three of his Men in tow.

“What the fuck!”

“My thoughts exactly,” Baz says dryly.

“He can’t— He can’t actually intend to—to—”

“Oh no,” Baz drones as he plops himself down onto his bed, “who knew the Mage could be so tyrannical.”

“Now is _so_ not the time, Baz!” I sling my rucksack and my coat over my shoulder. “Let’s go!”

“Go?” Baz arches his eyebrow at me—like we have time for that either! “Where do you intend to go? There’s only one way in and out of this building.

“Well we can’t stay here.” I grab at Baz’s wrist and tug him. “C’mon, get your stuff, _move_.”

Baz clucks at me but gives in. He slips on his coat and picks up his trunk (making it look far lighter than I suspect it is). I all but drag him out of the room.

I stand at the top of the steps and breathe hard.

I’ve got no plan, just a head full of static.

“Well?” Baz asks. “What now, Snow?”

“Um— Right, um—”

I pull Baz down the stairs with me. Sure, there’s only one way out, but if we can get to the door before the Mage, maybe we can make a run for it. I’m sure Baz can cast something to speed us along—and maybe, just maybe, the Mage or his Men won’t be able to cast something to slow us back down—or _worse_ —and then we can head for the gates and—and—

“Wait—” Baz yanks me back.

I’m about to snap at him but then I hear it: the door at the bottom of Mummers is flung open and a whole mess of heavy footsteps comes barrelling in.

“ _Fuck_ —” I blurt. (At least I whisper it.) I shove Baz back—he gets the picture immediately. We scramble up the stairs and throw ourselves back into our room.

“All right,” Baz says, “ _now_ what?” He doesn’t sound bored any more.

“Make me go off.”

Baz scowls. “I can’t.”

“You absolutely can.”

“I _can’t_ ,” he says through his teeth. “The Anathema. _And_ the truce.”

I shake him by the wrist. “Then yell horrible shit at me or something!”

There’s the clomping of several sets of boots climbing the stairs. My heart is in my throat.

“It’s not going to work,” Baz hisses, “if you know I’m only doing it to rile you up!”

“You’re always only doing it to rile me up!”

“Obviously, but—”

There’s a bang against the door, and then, “Simon,” comes the Mage’s voice. “I’m giving you one chance to open this door.”

My throat is tight, and my vision is getting wobbly. Baz’s expression seems grim, but everything is so hazy—

“Simon,” I hear again. Except this time it’s soft and close.

We can’t be here, we can’t _be_ here—

And then ...

We’re not.

BAZ

One moment, I’m staring into haunted blue eyes and plotting out all the different ways I could take the Mage down before he can get his hands on Simon.

The next moment, I’m staring at the door handle as it starts to turn, readying myself to strike.

And now, in this moment, I’m staring at a tree.

A tree?

I blink.

We’re outside. In a forest.

I’ve my luggage in one hand and Simon’s hand in the other. He’s no longer staring at me with terror in his eyes. Rather, he’s swivelling his head about, mouth agape.

“What the fuck?” Snow blurts.

“My thoughts exactly,” I say with far more sincerity this time.

“Where are we? The Wavering Wood?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Now my head’s swivelling about, too.

“Are we outside Watford?”

“I don’t know.” I snap my eyes back to him. There’s a more important question here: “Since when can you teleport?”

“What?” Snow stares at me, jaw still slack. “I can’t.”

“You just did.”

“I definitely didn’t.”

I sigh, loudly. He’s exhausting in his idiocy. “Then how do you explain our sudden relocation?”

Snow’s expression goes hard. “It must be the Humdrum.”

I pull my hand away from Snow’s. “It doesn’t feel like the Humdrum.” There’s none of that awful, dry vacuum that sucks the air and magic from your body. I clench my hand. “My magic feels fine.” I summon a small flame above my palm. Not a dead spot either, then.

Snow grimaces. “Put that away.”

“Afraid of a little fire, Snow?”

“You’re flammable.”

“And you’re not?” I extinguish it anyway.

Snow starts stomping about and muttering another “where are we?” to himself.

I set down my trunk. “Awfully nice of the Humdrum to summon us with our luggage.”

Snow glares at me over his shoulder—the shoulder his coat and rucksack are still slung over. “Help me look around, will you?”

“I’ll do you one better.” I fish my mobile out of my coat pocket and open a navigation app.

“You have a mobile at Watford?”

I don’t bother glancing up. “Perhaps it’s a gift from the Humdrum.”

“You’re not allowed to have a mobile at Watford.”

Now I do glance at Snow. “Who are you going to tell? The Mage?” He shrinks back. I almost feel bad about it. (Almost.)

Snow walks over to me with far less vigour in his step. He tries to peer at my phone. I bat him away.

“Well?” he grunts.

“Hampshire....”

“What?” Snow grabs at my hand to see the screen. I let him. “We’re in Hampshire?”

“Smack in the middle, it seems.” I peer at him. “The Humdrum really was so thoughtful, dropping me off practically on my doorstep.”

Snow gifts me with a burning scowl. It makes my spine tingle. He’s gorgeous. “I didn’t teleport us.”

“Would you even know if you had?”

“Wh— Y-yeah, probably!” Unsurprisingly, he seems unsure. “If we were just outside Watford maybe I’d believe it. But two hundred or whatever miles away? Isn’t that sort of thing unheard of?”

“Snow. You’re the Greatest Mage,” I remind, sure to curl my lip lest he think that’s a compliment. “You’re the thing we’ve _all_ heard of, yet you’re always doing the _un_ heard of.” Snow gives me a heaving roll of his eyes, so I continue. “A magickal orphan? Uncontrollable magic? ‘Going off’? Why _wouldn’t_ you be able to teleport vast distances?”

He groans and starts marching about again, pulling at his hair. “You better hope it’s that.”

“What does that mean?” I snarl.

Snow juts his chin at me as he circles about. “Maybe the Humdrum summoned us to your home because something’s about to happen—”

I snatch him by the arm with more speed than I should use. “What do you know?” I growl at him.

Snow winces. “Nothing! I’m just saying it’s possible, innit?”

I release him roughly. “If anything were happening at home, my father would call me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” I look at my phone. I don’t have a lot of reception out here, but there’s enough. “I’m supposed to be in the car with Fiona by now. He would either be telling me to fall back or hurry up.”

Snow tosses down his rucksack and starts tugging on his coat. “All right, good. So. What do you suppose we do now?”

I raise a brow at him. “All of this is of your foolish making, Snow. You tell me.”

Snow gives me a plaintive look. “I thought maybe we were working together on this.”

Crowley.

He has no idea what he’s doing, which is entirely typical. Usually I jump on such an opportunity to be as much of a hindrance to him as possible.

But ... if Simon isn’t ready to fight me to the death yet, then I’m sure as snakes not going to throw away such an opportunity. He’s practically gifted himself to me on a silver platter.

I sigh. “Right then. _Allons-y._ ”

SIMON

Baz leads us to a main road, then calls for a cab. I don’t bother asking after his plan. I’m exhausted. (Maybe I _did_ teleport us. Or maybe it’s fatigue after all the adrenaline.) (That seems more likely.) I simply sit in the back with him and watch the scenery go by. Baz is fiddling with his mobile. Neither of us says a thing.

I think Baz is messaging someone. Sometimes he huffs. Makes me think it’s his aunt. She’s probably chewing him out for making her wait so long. I wonder what he’s telling her.

I wish I could talk to Penny. I think about asking to borrow Baz’s phone, except I don’t have Penny’s number. Agatha probably has it, but I don’t have hers, either. I wonder if Agatha told Penny what I told her. I wonder what Penny’s thinking about all of this. I wonder what Baz is thinking about all of this.

I wonder what _I’m_ thinking about all of this.

Maybe it was stupid to expect that the Mage would let us sit the fight out just because we’re in love. Or, well—pretending we’re in love.

I can’t believe Baz is going along with any of this. He must really not want to fight, either. Which is right mind-boggling. Baz is _always_ picking a fight.

More than that, though, Baz is always _plotting_. He could be plotting right now. We’re practically in his backyard, and I have no idea where we’re headed. He could be texting the Old Families, arranging a meet-up. They could be preparing for ritual slaughter right this very second, eagerly awaiting my arrival. What would sacrificing the Chosen One summon? Something awful, I bet.

I’m bouncing my leg and chewing my cuticles and mulling over all the different ways Baz could be plotting to kill me. Breaking the truce isn’t so bad—his hand will cramp for a while, so what? That’s a pretty mild price to pay.

If Baz keeps this one-on-one, I might be able to take him. I’m pretty sure I left my wand back in our room, but I’ve got my sword—

Augh, fuck! We’re not supposed to be trying to kill each other! That’s the whole point of this!

I thunk my head back against the seat and close my eyes. It makes me even more carsick, but I can’t be arsed to care.

Eventually, Baz speaks. “Here’s fine,” he says to the cabby. “Keep the meter running, I’ll be out shortly.”

I open my eyes and peer out the window. We’re in a town. Outside a Barclays.

“Stay here,” Baz says to me as he slips out of the taxi. He’s gone before I can question him on it.

I close my eyes again.

Don’t think.

_You got yourself into a stupid mess, Simon. The Mage is furious with you. You’re at Baz’s mercy. Penny has no idea where you are or how to contact you._

_Oh, and you broke up with your girlfriend. Because you’re claiming to be in love with your nemesis._

Fuck.

Don’t _think_.

I push the heels of my palms into my eyes.

_Why are you on the run? Why is any of this happening?_

_What the fuck were you thinking?_

_“Obviously, you weren’t,”_ I can hear Baz saying in my head.

I groan.

_Don’t. Think._

I’m not sure exactly how much time goes by. Long enough that the driver gets out to have a smoke at some point. I’m back to aggressively gnawing on a hangnail when I see Baz leave the bank.

“What were you doing in there?” I blurt as he slides into the back seat with me again.

“It’s a bank,” Baz says. He leans between the front seats to speak with the cabby. “To the Enterprise, please.”

“Of course it’s a bank,” I grunt at him. “What were you _doing_ in it?”

Baz doesn’t even spare me a glance. “I know you’re poor, Snow, but are you that unfamiliar with what banks are used for?”

I give Baz a good, hard scowl, even if he won’t look at me to see it. “Were you getting money?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“What kind of a stupid question is that?”

“Don’t you have a card or something?”

Baz sighs. “If we’re trying to keep our location a secret, then I don’t want our every transaction showing up on my account statements.”

“Oh.” I sink back into the seat. “That makes sense.”

“Glad to have your approval.”

It’s a short ride to the Enterprise. Baz pays the taxi driver in cash. I try to get a look at the envelope he’s pulling the notes from—all I can tell is it’s rather thick.

“Now what?” I ask Baz’s back. He’s strolling up to the Enterprise, and somehow I’m stuck with both of our bags. (As I thought, his trunk is heavy as a numpty. I have to drag it.)

“Now we hire a car.”

It takes a bit of time. I leave the bags with Baz and pace the car park.

_Don’t think, don’t think._

“Snow,” I hear Baz call.

I swing my head in his direction. He’s leaning against a lovely deep blue Mercedes and twirling the keys around his finger. The sun’s in his hair. He looks posh as hell. I stumble towards him.

“I think we passed a Maccies,” I say. “I’m starving.”

Baz _tsks_ , but I think I see him smile as he gets into the driver’s seat. “Of course you are.”

* * *

Baz pays for everything with cash, just like he said he would. The car, the food, the petrol. He’s driving us to some hotel or something, and I guess he plans on paying for that with cash, too.

I didn’t think you could withdrawal that kind of cash all at once. When you’re rich, no one questions what you might be up to. At least, that seems to be the way the world works—no wonder the Families hate the Mage so much. They’ve never had to answer to anyone before.

My Big Macs are sitting like lead in my stomach. I’m worried about the Mage. Is he looking for me? Will he find me? Or is he moving along with his plan without me?

“Have you spoken to your family?” I ask Baz. It’s the first thing either one of us has said since we got on the motorway.

“Not yet.”

“Your aunt’s still waiting for you at Watford?”

Baz exhales through his nose. “No. I sent her a text saying I had left already.”

“So you _have_ spoken to your family.”

“Yes, fine,” he groans, “by the most basic definition, I’ve spoken with my family.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing, really.” Baz drums his fingers along the wheel. “I haven’t explained anything to any of them yet. Hence my original answer.”

I get comfortable, wedging myself in the corner between my seat and the door. I can watch Baz better like this.

“What _are_ you going to tell them?” I ask.

“I don’t know yet.”

I chew on my lip and wait for him to continue. He doesn’t.

“Um,” I start. Then pause. Baz flicks his eyes to me briefly. I try again. “The Mage, um. The _plan_. Well.”

“Spit it out, Snow.”

I rub at my hair. “On Christmas day. That’s. That’s when he wants to make a move. Said—said something about holidays being suspicious.”

Baz frowns at the road. “‘Auspicious’.”

“What?”

“He surely said ‘auspicious’,” Baz says. “Magic is often heightened around important days. That’s what he means.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“Which suggests he has a few spells up his sleeve,” Baz murmurs—mostly to himself, seems like.

“That doesn’t sound good, does it?”

“Not for my side, no.”

I chew my lip. Something that isn’t good for Baz’s side is supposed to be something good for me. For my side.

I’m not looking forward to it at all. I’ve got no good feelings about this whatsoever. All I’ve got is a head full of static and a buzzing in my limbs.

I want to run. Except we’re already running, aren’t we? And all it’s doing is riling me up more.

Baz shoots me a dirty look and cracks the window on my side.

“You’re stinking up the car, Snow.”

I push my palms against my eyes and try to breathe.

BAZ

Snow stays quiet for the rest of the ride. The car is far from quiet, though. He’s been fiddling with the radio incessantly. It’s one Christmas tune after another. If I have to listen to another rendition of _It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year_ , I’ll smash the radio with my bare hands. All irony of the lyrics aside, I can barely hear myself think!

Which … I suppose is fine. My thoughts are only managing inane loops anyway.

I’m in a car with Simon Snow.

We’re heading towards a hotel. Together.

We’re going to spend the winter holidays _together_.

We’re hiding, running.

He doesn’t want to kill me. (Not yet.)

He kissed me and told the Mage we’re dating.

He broke up with Wellbelove for this.

I’m in a car with Simon Snow.

It feels absolutely endless, but upon checking the clock on the dash, I realize we made rather good time. It’s been less than an hour, and I’m pulling the car up to the valet in front of the Chewton Glen hotel.

I get out, hand the keys over to the porter, and have our luggage taken away. Snow stumbles out after me, mouth hanging open. He looks rather aghast.

“What is this?” he blurts.

I quirk a brow at him. “A hotel.”

“A ho—?” He chokes on his disbelief. “This looks _absurdly_ fancy, Baz.”

I regard the charming courtyard we’re standing in and the sprawling classic country house laid before us. It _is_ rather absurdly luxurious, admittedly. I couldn’t resist the indulgence. I might die in a few days. And if not now, then surely soon. If Simon Snow is willing to spend the holidays with me, living in a fantasy world … well, why not make it truly fantastical? I’m already on borrowed time. I need to squeeze whatever I can out of life while I still have the chance.

“Live it up while you can, Snow,” I say, striding towards the doors. “I shiver to think what the Mage has in store for you once we return to Watford.”

Snow blusters magnificently while he follows me in. His blubbering stops short as he takes in the beauty of the hotel’s interior. The lighting is dim and warm, making the off-white walls gleam. The furnishings are wooden and well cared for, the polish immaculate. The doorways are all wide archways, and I can see several fireplaces at work with a cursory glance. Perhaps most lovely of all is the scent of fresh pine wafting from the various wreaths and garlands artfully hung about. There are little baubles and lights in them. I eagerly await evening, when the hotel surely becomes even cosier and dimmer—I’m certain the Christmas lights will look divine when twinkling in Snow’s eyes.

“Wait here,” I tell him. It’s hardly necessary, he looks rooted to the spot. “I’ll go arrange for a room.”

It’s a bit tricky. While we’ve arrived before the holiday rush truly begins, the hotel has been firmly booked for weeks. Snow scowls at me in disbelief when I’m able to procure a room for us despite the short notice.

“My family has connections here,” I tell him. It’s not a lie, we do. Very distant ones. I didn’t use them, though. The whole point of this is to not be found.

Snow isn’t buying it. “You thralled the lady, didn’t you?” he accuses me at full volume.

I give Snow my most charming smile and circle an arm around his shoulder. “You’re the only one enthralled by me, dear,” I say, leading him towards the lift. Dragging, more like.

Snow gets the hint, at least. He shuts up until we’re alone in the lift. “We don’t have to act like a couple here,” he grunts as he shuffles away from me.

“Sure,” I say. “We’re just two mates comfortable enough in our heterosexuality that we decided to take a romantic Christmas break together. ”

Snow’s cheeks go all blotchy. “I guess that is a bit suspicious....”

Not necessarily, but I’m certainly not about to tell him that. It’s not like there’s a manhunt for us necessitating that we keep a low profile. Besides, everyone will assume we’re together even if we don’t act as such. Pretending to be a couple was all his idea anyway. I intend to take full advantage of it.

We exit on the second floor. I hand Snow his key card and lead us down the hall to our room. I use my own card to get us in.

Snow lets out a low whistle.

Indeed. The room is gorgeous. Hardwood floors, plush furniture, a crisp blend of country charm with a modern sleekness. It’s quintessentially English. We have a wonderful view of the grounds and the expansive croquet lawn.

Snow starts wandering immediately. He looks thoroughly out of place. He wobbles about like he’s afraid to get too close to anything lest he ruin or break it somehow. At least he’s wearing his school trousers and not awful joggers—then he’d really look like he was merely here to case the joint.

I decide to go inspect the bathroom. It’s wonderful, too. There’s a large sink, a walk-in shower, and a deep bathtub. I sigh, content. I will absolutely be utilising that tub before bed tonight.

When I head back into the room, I find Snow tearing apart the sofa. I fold my arms and lean against the doorway. “Looking for loose change?”

Snow scowls at me. He jams the cushion back into place. “Was checking if it’s a sofa bed,” he grumbles.

I scan the room. There’s the two-seater sofa and a large armchair situated around a circular coffee table. There’s also a chest of drawers with a TV on top, a little desk, and a footstool at the end of a king-size bed, the latter of which is adorned with a wealth of pillows.

Ah. I clear my throat. “Perhaps we can arrange for a cot.”

Snow flops down on the poorly-reassembled sofa. “Why would we need a cot if we’re dating?”

“Are you saying you want to share the bed?” It’s certainly big enough. The conversation alone has my heart in my throat.

“No,” Snow says brusquely. (Damn.) “I’m saying we can’t ask for that without it seeming weird. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“It’s not long enough.”

“I’ll—I’ll make do.”

It’s for the best, really. As much as I would like to scratch _“share a bed with Snow”_ off my bucket list, I don’t know if my nerves could take it. I might snap and grab him and never let go.

There’s a knock on the door. I let the porter in with our belongings. Snow and I occupy ourselves with a bit of unpacking, which in Snow’s case means slapping a toothbrush down in the bathroom and tossing his rucksack onto the chair.

“That’s your idea of unpacking?” I ask while hanging my things. I spell out the wrinkles as I go.

Snow shrugs from where he’s sprawled over the sofa. “What’s the point of shoving it all into a drawer instead?”

“The point would be not shoving it at all,” I tell him. “You don’t need to live out of a bag.”

Snow shrugs again and chews on his thumb. It’s a disgusting habit (and often a little bit bloody). He doesn’t tend to do it unless he’s really in a froth. And he’s been doing it on and off for hours now. Which is understandable, really. His entire world has flipped upside down.

For once, I can actually be decent to him when he’s having a hard time. Not that I know how to go about that.

I mull it over as I lay out my toiletries in the bathroom. Snow kills time pacing back on forth on the balcony. The door’s open, letting all the cold air in and all the heat out. I can foresee us arguing over it already, just like the window back at Watford.

It’s an effort to bite my tongue.

“Snow,” I call once I’ve finished putting my things away.

“What?” He comes back in, miraculously closing the door behind him.

I adjust my cuffs. “Would you like to go explore the hotel with me?”

Snow cocks his head like a curious dog. “What?”

I set my jaw. Then try again. “There are a variety of activities at this hotel. We could go explore, sign up for some things.”

“Oh. Um. Well. Yeah. All right.”

“All right.”

SIMON

This hotel is weird. It’s snug and homey, while still being ridiculously large and extravagant. The lady at reception—her name’s Lily I find out—tells us all about what’s on, complete with a pamphlet. The grounds are massive, with all sorts of outdoor activities. They’ve got croquet, golf, horses, fly-fishing, archery … a lot. I’ll have to go exploring later.

There’s a restaurant called The Kitchen, which is such a stupidly straightforward name that I kind of like it. Apparently they’ve got classes now and then. There’s a baking one tomorrow. I must have perked up when Lily mentioned it, because Baz immediately signed us up for it. As if he doesn’t get his fill of laughing at me in classes at Watford.

Baz also signs us up for a spa day on the twenty-third. Because of course there’s a spa here, too. It’s even in the name, I realize when I look at the pamphlet: _Chewton Glen Hotel & Spa_. Ridiculous.

I’m pissed about how much money this all must cost. Then, Baz whisks us off to afternoon tea, and suddenly I’m not so pissed any more.

There’s a _tea steward_ who lets us sample a whole range of teas, all of which are bloody fantastic. Our table has its own tiered display of snacks just for us. There are four varieties of sandwich. Even roast beef! And little cakes and pastries. And a whole _pile_ of scones, served with jam and clotted cream—I don’t see butter, but I almost don’t mind, given everything they _do_ have.

Baz isn’t indulging much at all. While that’s typical for him at Watford, it’s more obvious here. He spends the entire time staring out at the terrace, sipping his tea. Sometimes I swear I can feel his eyes on me, but I can never catch him in the act.

“Are you going to eat anything?” I ask once I’ve definitely cleared through more than my half of the offerings.

“I’m still full from McDonald’s,” he says.

“That was forever ago. All you ate was chips.”

“They were filling.”

I lean forward and drop my voice. “Do you have an eating disorder?”

Baz finally looks at me then—it’s a sharp look. “No.”

I don’t think he does. He’s skinny, but he’s not _really_ skinny. He’s in good shape, actually. Strong legs. Nice arms. All that football. Still, I press on. “Would you tell me if you did?”

“Probably not,” he admits.

I frown. “Are you going to not eat the entire time we’re here?”

“I’ll eat some,” he says with a huff. “And you can have all my leftovers. You should be delighted.”

I push a little sandwich square onto his plate. It’s brie and some kind of fruit chutney—my least favourite of the options. Baz starts to sneer, then gives up part way. He picks up the sandwich, takes a small bite, and looks off at the terrace as he chews.

Hm.

I let Baz eat in peace. It’s a small victory. I don’t need to catch sight of his fangs right away. I think they don’t _always_ come out when he eats. But he eats so rarely, it’s been impossible to get a clear picture of when it does and doesn’t happen. Especially because all I’m going on is the puffiness of his cheeks. They just … sometimes look fuller than they should, given the small bites he takes.

Baz finishes his bit of sandwich, then also works his way through a lemon square and some sort of chocolate-dipped teacake that was sweeter than I would have liked. (I think Baz has a sweet tooth. He’s always added sugar to his tea as long as I’ve known him.)

It’s rather nice. The tea’s great, the food’s great, and the company is … fine. Which is pretty spectacular given the company is _Baz_. We’ve never sat for a meal together before. Even when we got Maccies, Baz was sneaking bites of his chips while ushering us out and back onto the road.

This is the longest stretch we’ve ever gone without fighting before.

Who knew we had to get magickally dropped into middle-of-nowhere Hampshire while on the run from a war in order to be civil?

Fuck.

I don’t want to think about that right now.

How many hours has it been?

Has word reached Penny?

Can the Mage find us here?

“Snow.”

I startle, my knee knocking into the table leg. “Wh-what?”

Baz sets his cup down. “Shall we go for a walk?”

“Uh. Sure. Yeah.”

Baz blots his lips primly, then stands. He offers me his arm.

I give him a scowl. It’s pretty lacklustre because I’m feeling just the slightest bit friendly towards him at the moment. I get up and walk past him, though I do make sure he’s not too far behind.

* * *

Lily tells us about the walking trails. There’s only an hour or so of sun left—should make for a nice view.

Baz buttons up his peacoat and stuffs his hands in his pockets. I suppose the weather is a bit cold, more so as the afternoon turns to evening. I button up my coat, too.

Neither one of us are wearing the right shoes for this, so we agree not to wander too far.

Imagine that. Baz and I agreeing on something.

And walking together. I don’t know if we’ve ever walked together. We always make sure to leave the room at different times. Seems stupid now, given we’re often going the same places. 

This isn’t bad. Maybe we could do this once we get back.

If we even can go back.

We _have_ to go back. _I_ have to.

I’ve got dark creatures to fight. I’ve got the Humdrum to take down.

I’ve got school to finish.

The Mage can’t actually punish me for this, can he?

What will he do to Baz?

I won’t let him punish Baz. This whole thing’s my fault. I’m dragging him along—not sure why Baz is putting up with it, but it’s certainly not his doing.

“You’ll set the forest on fire if you keep it up.”

I snap my head towards Baz. “What?”

Baz gives me a sideways glance. “Your magic’s leaking again.”

“Oh.” I rub at my hair. “Right.”

We keep walking. I try to focus on the crunch of leaves under my feet. It’s not very effective. The ground’s mostly soggy. It’s humid out.

Maybe it will snow this week. A snowy Christmas would be nice. Classic. Agatha would like that. Even though she doesn’t like the cold, she likes how picturesque it is.

I’m not with Agatha, though. I’m with Baz. My enemy. The guy who is usually getting in between me and Agatha.

Merlin.

He _really_ got between us now, didn’t he? And it’s completely my fault.

What was I thinking? Breaking up with my girlfriend. Before Christmas. In front of her _dad_. I like her dad! I hope he doesn’t hate me for this. The Mage probably contacted Dr. Wellbelove right away when he realized Baz and I were gone.

I hope Dr. Wellbelove isn’t too disappointed in me. I might not be dating his daughter any more, but I’d still like to keep them all in my life. I don’t have enough people in my life as it is. I can’t start losing them.

That must be why I don’t want to fight Baz.

Yeah, he’s a vampire and my nemesis. But he’s also my roommate. I don’t want to lose him. What would I do? Just have no roommate for the rest of my time at Watford? That doesn’t seem right.

I don’t know what’s worse: the idea of getting a new roommate, or the idea of Baz’s bed forever being empty.

Baz sighs and stops walking suddenly. It takes me a second to notice. I stop a few paces ahead of him.

“Do you want to go back?” he asks me.

“Oh. Yeah, all right. You cold?”

Baz frowns—there’s no venom in it. “I mean ... to Watford.”

“What? Why—?”

“You seem like you regret being here.”

“No, I—”

Do I? Do I regret this? I don’t know. Not yet. Not _really_. I might do later, though.

“Just having a, uh, a hard time turning my brain off.”

Baz arches a brow. “Something you typically excel in.”

I roll my eyes because that was too easy. “Yeah, yeah.” I nudge him as I go past. “C’mon. I could use a lie down before dinner.”

“Ah, enjoying the holiday to its fullest, then.” I can hear a smile in Baz’s voice.

BAZ

When we get back to the room, we’re greeted with rose petals on the bed and a bottle of _Veuve Clicquot_ on ice. Precisely what my pining gay heart does not need.

Serves me right for stressing to Lily that Snow and I were _so_ looking forward to our first romantic break together.

“What’s this?” Snow says, peering at the bottle. “Wine?”

“Champagne,” I correct.

“Why?”

I gesture to the smattering of pink and red rose petals. “Romance, obviously.”

Snow blinks at me furiously, cheeks going red. “Why?” he says again, pitch higher.

“Haven’t you heard?” I sit near the foot of the bed and give Snow a coy smirk. “You and I are dating.”

Snow drags his hands over his face, letting out a long groan.

I flop back amongst the pillows and roses. If I have to be deeply distressed by all of this, then so does Snow. “Doesn’t it make you want to kiss me again?”

“Fuck off, Baz,” Snow moans, then stomps into the bathroom. “Oh, bloody hell,” I hear him mutter. “Fucking roses everywhere....”

I laugh—because if I don’t, I might cry.

Part of me wishes Snow did want to go back to Watford. Call the whole thing off. Admit it was all a charade and he can go crawling back to the Mage, and I can go back to my side of the trenches.

I stare at the ceiling and consider my options.

My phone has been going off all day. It’s on silent, but I’ve peeked at it now and then. Eleven missed texts (all Fiona), three missed calls from my father, and one from Daphne. That’s the one I feel guilty about.

All I told Fiona via text was that I wouldn’t be coming back with her and that I would touch base soon.

That was hours ago. I still don’t know what to say.

Snow slumps back into the room soon enough. He throws himself onto the sofa. I can feel him staring at me. I haven’t moved.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I need to call my father,” I tell the ceiling.

“Yeah.” Snow almost sounds soft. “What. Um. What are you going to say?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Will he believe it?” I can hear Snow’s swallow. “That we’re dating?”

I consider this a moment. “Yes. I think that will be the most believable part of all this.”

“Wh-what does that mean?”

“He’ll believe I want to date you,” I carefully admit. “He’ll have a harder time believing you want to date me. And he certainly won’t be able to reconcile with the concept of you giving us reliable intel.”

“Wh—? Why would—? Wait—”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Snow.” I push myself up and shake rose petals out of my hair.

Snow is staring at me with wide eyes. His cheeks are flushed. I peer at him.

“Christmas, you said?” I prompt when it seems he’s only going to continue his vapid staring. “For the Mage’s raid?”

“Um. Yeah. I mean.” Snow bounces his leg. “I didn’t hear a lot. I don’t know when on Christmas. Just, you know, that the holiday is sus— _aus_ picious.”

I head for the small alcove near the door where I’ve hung my coat and fish my mobile out of the pocket. “Do you know what kind of raid?”

“No?” he says, then amends with, “Wait, yes. A round-up. A few Men at each home.”

“Herding us?” I flick through my messages, leaving Fiona’s curse-laden diatribe on read.

“I guess.” Snow shrugs. “Don’t know where to, but yeah, I suppose that would be the idea.”

“Hm. All right.” It’s not a lot of information, though it’s better than nothing. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“What? No.” Snow jumps up. “Where are you going?”

I lift one eyebrow. “To call my father.”

“Stay here.”

“Why?”

Snow sets his jaw.

Ah.

I sigh. “What nefarious plot do you think I’m up to this time?”

“I don’t—” Snow hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“It’s against the truce to accuse me of plotting.”

“Then stay here, and don’t give me reasons to accuse you.”

I can’t resist sneering. “Fine,” I grump, making my way back to the bed. “I’ll even put it on speaker. Will that make you happy, Snow?”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, then shrugs dramatically, flopping back down onto the sofa. “Sure.”

I call my father, set it to speaker, and place the phone on the bed. (I brush the rose petals aside—I can’t have them in my field of vision when doing this.) (I can hardly handle having Snow in my field of vision.)

It rings twice, then connects. “Basilton?” comes my father’s greeting, his voice tight.

I take a deep breath.

Lord Byron, grant me strength.

SIMON

“Hullo, father,” Baz says. He keeps his head dipped down, so I can’t see his face. “My apologies for not calling sooner.”

“Where are you? What’s going on?” Baz’s dad usually has this even, firm way of speaking—not that I’ve heard him speak too many times—he sounds a bit distressed right now, though.

“Are you at home?” Baz asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

“ _Yes_.”

Baz exhales. “Good. Father, I have reason to believe the Mage will be making a move on Christmas day.”

Makes me feel weird, listening to this. It feels like spying. Like intruding.

“What kind of a move?” comes Baz’s dad’s reply.

“I’m not entirely certain,” Baz admits. “I believe he’ll be sending a few Men to each of our homes in an attempt to round us up.”

_‘Us’. ‘Our’._

The Old Families.

Baz is one of them. I know that. Obviously. I don’t know why it feels weird to be reminded of it right now.

Sitting here, in this posh country home, with champagne and rose petals, I was starting to think this could go all right. We could have this little retreat, Baz and I. We could act like friends for once. Wouldn’t that be great? To be friends with my roommate instead of enemies? To not have my heart jump into my throat every time I so much as catch a whiff of him?

Baz’s dad asks for details on the round-up, but Baz hasn’t got any, because I haven’t got any. It’s not very good intel at all, is it? Yet I still feel guilty for providing it. I’m betraying the Mage.

I hate this. That the Mage is doing this. I’ve never acted against him before. It feels wrong. It feels like I’ve fucked up big time, but I’m too stupid to realize how.

I’m definitely too stupid to be caught up in this political drama.

That’s exactly why I didn’t want to be part of it!

Baz isn’t. Too stupid for it, I mean. I bet he says more at their creepy underground meetings than most of the adults. (I’m _assuming_ the Old Families have underground meetings. With candles and cloaks. And virgin sacrifices.)

“Where did you acquire this information from?” his dad asks.

Baz looks at me then. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Simon Snow,” he says. He holds my gaze. I look away.

“And what did you do to him to make him tell?” There’s a touch of humour in Mr. Pitch’s—no, Grimm-Pitch? No, wait, Grimm, just Grimm—there’s a touch of humour in Mr. Grimm’s voice.

“He gave the information willingly,” Baz explains. I look at him again, but he’s back to staring at the phone.

“Why would he do that?”

“Well—”

“It must be a ruse,” his dad continues. “What is he trying to distract us from?”

I can’t help but grunt at that. Baz shoots me a devastating glare. I don’t give a damn. How dare his dad accuse _me_ of plotting! That’s the pot calling the kettle, if I’ve ever heard it!

“I trust Snow,” Baz assures while still glaring daggers at me. “The information is good.”

“Have you gone soft?” Mr. Grimm rumbles menacingly. It really ticks me off. “Don’t be naive, Basilton.”

“I’m not.” Baz pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a breath. “Snow and I … well. We’ve grown rather close this past term.”

“He’s the Mage’s Heir,” his dad growls. “His very existence threatens our World.”

“He’s the Greatest Mage,” Baz insists. He doesn’t raise his voice, it’s merely strengthened with conviction. “He’s the _saviour_ for our World. Snow has zero interest in the Mage’s political motivations—he’s removed himself from such goings-on entirely.”

“So he’s convinced you to believe.” The disappointment in Mr. Grimm’s voice is obvious. I feel ill having to listen to it.

Baz is still pinching his nose. His hand is shaking. “I trust him,” he says again.

There’s a beat. Then: “Are you with him right now?”

“Yes.”

Another beat, a breath. “Basilton. What’s. Going. On.”

“Snow doesn’t want to be a part of the raids,” Baz says slowly. “He told the Mage off, right in front of me. We can trust him.”

“Where are you?” His dad’s voice keeps getting lower. And somehow more terrifying.

“The Mage was going to force him to participate, Father.”

“ _Where are you?_ ”

Baz swallows. I grip my knees, hard. “We’re somewhere safe.“

“Basilton—”

“I’ll come home on Boxing Day,” Baz swears. “Once it’s passed. Once the Mage can no longer force Simon to participate in his tyranny.”

I start pacing the room. My throat feels tight.

“This is foolish,” his father snaps. “And short-sighted. I’m deeply disappointed in you.”

I can’t look at Baz. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be hearing this.

Baz: “Keeping Simon out of this war is good for the Families.”

Mr. Grimm: “It seems to me that _he’s_ keeping _you_ out of it.”

Baz: “No, he— Simon is—”

I should go. I should _go_.

“Has he seduced you?” his dad spits. “Is that what this is?”

“Not exactly,” Baz answers. His voice has been weakening more and more.

I think I might sick up—

Mr. Grimm’s voice is thick with disgust. “Is this your act of teenage rebellion? It’s not bad enough you want to bring a boy home, you have to pick the worst one possible?”

I _need_ to go.

I run out of the room, not caring about the loud slam of the door behind me.

* * *

I run three laps around the property. Once I no longer feel like there’s lava crackling underneath my skin, I head back inside.

I don't want to go back to the room. I don't want to talk to Baz. I don't want to know anything about the rest of that conversation. I don't even want to look at him.

I've got no other option though. It's almost dinner time, and I've got empty pockets. Can I put whatever I want on the room's tab? Make Baz pay for it later? I've got no idea how these places work. Could be all-inclusive for all I know.

I've got no idea of anything, do I?

I collapse into one of the comfy chairs in some kind of communal lounge area. As I catch my breath, I make lists.

**Things I’ve not got:**

— A plan

— My mentor

— A way to contact Penny

— Money

— A girlfriend 

**Things I’ve got:**

— The clothes on my back

— A truce with Baz

Pretty shit lists.

Oh, and another thing I’ve not got:

— Anywhere else to go.

So … I go back to the room.

Baz's coat is still on the hanger, but I don't see him when I let myself in. Takes me a minute to realize he's on the balcony, leaning against the rail. With no coat on. And the bottle of champagne dangling from his hand.

I fling open the door. "Baz!"

He doesn't flinch. Could probably smell me coming. (Vampire.) (What am I doing, sharing a room with a vampire without the Roommate's Anathema to protect me?)

"What, Snow," he says. His voice is flat. His back's to me.

"Um." I swallow. What do I say? ‘ _Are you drunk? Are you going to jump? A drop from this height would barely hurt me, so I doubt it will do anything to a vampire. Are you just trying to be as dramatically morbid as possible?’_

Baz glances at me, eyebrows dropped low. I'm blustering.

"Did you save me any?" is what finally falls out of my mouth.

Baz lifts an eyebrow then. That's better. "Of…? Oh." He huffs—it's almost a laugh. Baz lifts the bottle. "I only just opened it," he says. Held up closer to the light coming from our room, I can see the bottle's still full. "Forgot to bring a glass with me."

"So you were just going to stand there?"

Baz doesn't answer, just moves past me to go back into the room. Everything about him is slow, weighed down. I don't know if I've ever seen him like this.

He can't be drunk. Is he hungry? Thirsty? Is he depressed?

"Are you hungry?" I ask, following him back in.

"Not quite." Baz pours two glasses of champagne in the flutes provided. "Though I'm sure you are."

"I could eat. Wasn't sure how to get food here, though."

"It will be billed to the room. I'll pay it off when we check out."

I'm not sure how I feel about Baz explaining things to me instead of making fun of me for the things I don't know.

“Right,” I say. Maybe I should thank him. I don’t really want to.

Baz hands me one of the drinks. “A toast,” Baz declares as I take it. “To being disappointments to our father figures for Christmas.”

“Fucking hell.”

I’ll drink to that.

BAZ

“How come,” Snow drawls from where he’s splayed himself along the sofa, “they sent alcohol to the room?”

“Are you complaining?” I pluck up his glass, ignore his protestations, and pour the last dribbles of champagne into it before shoving it back at him.

“Nope.” Snow drinks it down.

I deposit the bottle in the bin and flop back onto the rose petal littered bed, which is where I’ve spent most of the past hour while gulping down _Veuve Clicquot_ with Simon bloody Snow.

“I just mean,” he continues, “like, don’t they ask for ID for that? We’re not eighteen yet.”

“Yes, well.” I stretch out like a contented cat. My limbs feel loose and warm. I’m settling in a cosy sweet spot of nicely buzzed. “The staff believes we’re twenty.”

“Twenty?” Snow parrots because he’s an idiot—and considerably more pissed than I am, which makes him even more of an idiot. It’s revoltingly endearing. “How’d you manage that?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets, Snow.”

Snow laughs. “That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

He laughs more. “I get that a lot.”

“Really?” I roll onto my side and prop my chin in my hand. I’m smiling. “Who would dare say such a thing?”

Snow scrunches up his nose at me, but he’s smiling too. It’s broad and delightful. It’s something I never get to see aimed in my direction.

“Really, though. What did you do? Did you thrall her?”

I sigh. Even when I dare to feel _good_ for once, Snow has to drag me back down to reality.

“No,” I say, pushing myself off the bed. “You have quite the fascination with the concept.” There are rose petals all over me again. I brush them off, shake out my hair. “Perhaps you’re deflecting, Snow. Do I enthral _you_?”

Snow peers at me. His tongue is pushing at his bottom lip as the gears in his head struggle to turn. I’m furious at how attractive he is. It takes far too much restraint to not suck that tongue into my mouth.

(Crowley. I need a drink.) (Not the alcoholic kind.)

“Maybe,” he finally says.

Oh.

That is ... not what I expected him to say.

I clear my throat. “How about some dinner?”

“Mm, yeah.” Snow stretches as he says it— _groans_ it. His jumper rides up and everything. It’s completely obscene. “Don’t want to move though.”

“Knackered from your run?”

“Yeah.” Snow squints at me. “How’d you know I went for a run?”

“I saw you huffing and puffing around the premises while I was on the balcony,” I say.

“Is that why you were out there? Watching me?”

“Yes, Snow,” I sneer with as much venom as I can muster. Which is remarkably little. “Everything I do is a thinly veiled attempt at ogling you.”

Snow reddens. “Fuck off.”

“Gladly.” I sweep towards the door, collecting my coat along the way.

“Where are you going?”

“To inquire about room service.”

“With your coat?”

I flip Snow the V and exit.

* * *

I arrange for dinner to be sent to the room. Three different dishes and a slice of tarte tatin for dessert. I’ll sneak most of the sirloin dish for myself—the rest should be enough for Snow.

Then, I wander into the woods behind the property while searching out a drink. There are ample small creatures, so the hunt isn’t the least bit challenging.

 _Snow_ is challenging.

Attempting to get along with him is somehow both exasperatingly difficult and shockingly easy in turns.

Sometimes he looks at me, and I can almost believe that this could be something real. As if we could truly separate ourselves from the war and just be proper roommates. Proper friends.

Sometimes he looks at me, and I can almost believe we could be _more_.

_‘Do I enthral you?’_

_‘Maybe.’_

I’m more than well practised in imagining scenarios wherein Snow confesses his desperate attraction to me. To have him say something so very near to my deepest desires does more to make me flush with warmth than any glass of champagne.

But then he has to go and ruin it all by constantly harping about my vampirism.

Can’t he allow me a few days of delusion before inevitably cutting me down once he can no longer bear to continue defying the Mage?

He better succumb to cowardice soon. If not, my father might beat him to it.

I try to shake myself of reliving that conversation by torturing myself with Fiona’s messages instead. She eventually gave up, but then began her assault anew shortly after I hung up with my father. He must have called her.

— _what the fuck basil?_

_are you seriously shagging the mageling?_

_or is Malcolm just being a tit?_

_I tried to convince him you’re seducing the little troll for intel_

_but Malcolm’s insisting you sounded sincere_

_I’m gagging_

_not as much as you probably are tho_

_gagging for snow’s dick i mean_

I take my aggravation out on three squirrels, then finally feel prepared to respond.

— _Simon has made it very clear he has no intentions of fighting the Families._

I trudge back towards the hotel and hope she doesn’t respond right away.

No such luck:

— _and you trust him because he’s cute? Stop thinking with your prick_

— _My relationship with Simon is none of any of your concerns. The only effect it could have on political matters at this point are in ways that are good for us. If anything, I would say my prick has shown an impressive understanding of diplomacy._

My hands are shaking. This is so close to the truth—to my real feelings.

What if my family agrees? What if I get their blessing?

What if I can convince Snow we should continue our ruse even after the holiday?

What if ...

— _tell your prick to figure out how to get the mage to call the raid off entirely and I might just be inclined to agree with it_

— _I’ll pass the message along._

I turn off my phone for the night before letting myself back into our hotel room.

It smells divine in here. Snow has already opened up all the room service and is digging in.

“Have you saved me any?” I hang up my coat and leave my shoes at the door.

“Yeah,” Snow says around a mouthful of halibut. “Figured the steak’s yours.”

“Why’s that?” I ask as I head into the bathroom. Crowley, there really are rose petals all over in here. I get the water running in the tub.

“Cuz it’s bloody,” Snow calls out.

“You’re an idiot,” I call back. He’s also right, but I certainly don’t tell him that.

I collect my pyjamas and my meal from the room, then hole myself up in the bathroom until I’m feeling tired and relaxed enough that even Simon Snow can’t ruin my mood.

SIMON

Baz spends a long, long while in the bathroom. I’m glad I used the loo earlier, otherwise I’d be pretty peeved at him.

I polished off the rest of the food while hanging out on the bed (it’s annoyingly comfortable) and flicking through channels on the telly. It’s only now that I’m stacking the cleared plates that I realize Baz only ordered one dessert. Was it for me or for him? Were we supposed to split it?

We’ve never shared food before or had to care about what the other one was eating. It wouldn’t be reasonable for him to get angry with me over this.

I _hope_ he won’t get angry.

A slice of pie isn’t worth feeling this guilty over.

 _Ugh_. I’m all messed up. I need sleep. A solid night’s rest with a full belly sounds like the perfect way to end a really shit day.

I turn off the TV, change into my pyjamas, steal a blanket and some pillows from the bed, then set about making up the sofa. I drag over the bench to widen my sleeping area since I can’t add any length to it. I’ll curl up diagonally. The two pieces of furniture are at different heights, but it’ll do.

I turn off all the lights. Baz won’t need them. (Vampire.) And I settle in.

The bedclothes smell like lavender and rose petals. It’s a bit much. Makes my nose itch.

I toss and turn for a while, trying to get comfortable. Everything feels off, and I’m not sure why I’m so bothered by it. I’ve definitely slept in worse conditions than this.

Eventually, I hear the soft creak of the bathroom door opening, and a rush of warm air flows out. It smells like all of Baz’s posh products. Cedar and bergamot.

* * *

I must have fallen asleep at some point, because now I’m suddenly up with a start. My heart’s pounding hard in my chest, my skin is prickling, I’m hot all over, I’m disoriented, confused—

It takes me too long to remember where I am—where _we_ are. Baz and me.

Hotel. We’re in the hotel.

I stumble towards the toilet, blindly slapping my hand along the wall until I find the light switch inside. I turn the cold tap on and splash water on my face. I’m panting. I’m burning up. I taste smoke.

“Snow?”

I grip the sink and try to catch my breath. “Yeah,” I croak out.

Baz moves so silently—he’s in the bathroom doorway, but I didn’t hear him get up at all. Though it’s hard to hear anything over my panting and the pounding of blood in my ears.

“Are you all right?” he asks, soft and steady.

“Yeah. Just.” I gulp and squeeze my eyes shut. _Calm down, cool off_. “Had a rough dream. Then—then woke up and couldn’t remember where I was and.” _Steady on, take it easy_. “I’m fine. Just. Need a sec.”

“Take your time.”

I open my eyes to see Baz picking up one of the washcloths and running it under the cold water. He brushes my hair off my forehead with one hand, then places the cool cloth there. I close my eyes again.

It feels good. It helps.

“What are you doing?” I ask because I don’t know what else to say.

“Focus on breathing,” is Baz’s reply.

“Why are you helping…?”

“I’m trying to be decent.”

I open my eyes. Baz’s grey ones lock to mine—they soak up the warm bathroom lighting—they’re a shimmering metallic hue.

“Since when?” I ask.

The corner of Baz’s mouth tips up just so. “Shut up and appreciate it, will you?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Baz speak to me so softly.

“Was your dad right? Is this all just something to make him mad?”

That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Baz’s expression twists, like a flash of pain went through him, and then he gives me one of his darkest sneers. He shoves the cloth at me and stalks out of the loo.

I can’t sleep well for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating daily (I hope)!


	2. Sunday, December 21st, 2014

SIMON

Around seven in the morning, I give up even pretending to sleep. Breakfast should be available around now, I figure. I change out of my school-issued pyjamas, tugging on trackies and a Doctor Who tee instead.

Guess I won’t be watching Doctor Who reruns this break. I bet Agatha’s happy about that.

I stuff my feet into my trainers, make sure I have my key card, then head out.

There’s a full English breakfast on offer. I stuff myself stupid—the food is just incredible—and then start wandering around the interior premises. There’s table tennis and a snooker room, a piano lounge, and a bunch of rooms that I suppose are for business people to use. I can’t fathom it, booking a place like this for a work retreat. What kind of career do you need in order to have meetings in a fancy resort? Probably the sort of career Baz’ll have one day. Financial advisor or some such rot.

Speak of the devil.

I circled back ‘round to breakfast, since getting myself all aggravated about rich folk made me peckish again, and there he is.

Baz is sitting at one of the tables with a cleared off plate, staring out the window and sipping tea. His hair is brushed back loosely, no gel in it, and he’s wearing a maroon shirt with the first three buttons undone. The colour makes his paleness even more striking. I can’t see his trousers like this, but they’re probably something smart and well-fitted.

I scoop some eggs and beans onto a plate, grab a cup of tea, and plop down across from Baz.

“You don’t need to sit with me,” he says, not even bothering to look my way.

“Yes, I do. We’re pretending to be a couple,” I remind him.

“Perhaps we’ve had a row.”

I shovel some food into my mouth. “We haven’t.”

Baz sips. “Haven’t we?”

I slap my fork down in agitation. Baz shoots me a glare at that. Of course he only bothers to look at me because I’ve annoyed him.

“What are you all tetchy for?” I hiss, trying not to be too loud for all these rich folk's delicate sensibilities. “You don’t get to treat me like shit for seven years and then expect me to go all gaga for you just because you’ve thrown some money around and are trying to be _‘decent’_ for once.”

Baz’s movements are slow and careful as he sets down his teacup. I work on another mouthful of food while he _collects himself_.

When our eyes meet again, Baz’s expression is tight, but not aggressive. Like he’s pained. Like my whole fucking existence is such a pain for him.

“Our baking class begins in an hour,” he says. His voice is too steady—he’s trying too hard. “Would you like to attend it without me?”

This time when I set down my fork, I do it with more care. I take a breath to collect myself, too.

“No,” I say. Baz’s eyebrow twitches. “Not unless you’d rather not do it.”

After a moment’s consideration, Baz says, “I would like to do it with you.”

Any other time, I would swear Baz has something up his sleeve. But he...seems genuinely kind of hurt about what happened last night, and I don’t know. It could be a new tactic. Can’t imagine what for.

Baz has every reason to be angry with me. I dragged him away from his family on Christmas. My stupid plan made him get chewed out by his dad—his aunt too, probably. And I ate all the dessert.

He hasn’t been a jerk to me at all though, has he? Baz could have ditched me on the side of the road. Or drained me in my sleep. Or—or...

Any number of things, really. From mildly annoying to deadly.

But he hasn’t.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’d like that, too. And...after? Let’s check out the archery, all right?”

Baz gives me a proper eyebrow lift at that. “Archery?”

“You ever tried it?”

“No. Have you?”

“Yeah. I’m shit at it.” I grin. “Not patient enough to line up the shot right.”

“Then why do it here?”

“I figure it’d be something you’d enjoy.”

Both of his eyebrows go up this time, like a silent question.

I shrug. “You’re doing the baking class for my sake, so....”

The smile Baz gives me is a slow, playful thing. “Oh, it’s hardly that altruistic, Snow,” he purrs. “I’m merely looking forward to the novelty of seeing you fuck up in a classroom run by Normals. A fresh perspective on your incapabilities, if you will.”

I knew it. I kick his shin under the table. “Sod off.” I’m laughing.

Baz is laughing, too.

BAZ

Snow goes back to the room to shower before class, since I hogged the bathroom all yesterday night. He comes back down wearing the same awful tee shirt. At least he’s wearing proper trousers this time. Jeans, not those chavvy trackies.

He stops in his tracks when he sees me waiting for him outside The Kitchen. 

“ _Baz_.”

“What?”

“You— You’re....”

“ _What_ , Snow?”

I can’t tell if Snow looks angry or horrified. He’s certainly red-faced. “You’re wearing _jeans_.”

“As are you.” I sneer—though it’s mostly due to confusion. “Is this a problem?”

“You— But you— _Jeans_?” he baulks.

I turn away. I cannot handle this half-wit. “We’re going to be late. Are you coming or not?”

“I’m— Yeah. Yeah.”

Snow stumbles along behind me. When I give him a glance over my shoulder, I swear to Merlin he’s looking at my arse. I can’t even fathom what he’s thinking. He’s probably furious about the Tom Ford label—if he even knows what a luxury brand is.

* * *

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that Snow is rather good at baking. I never expected that his love for carbs and butter could translate into a skill. Except for eating contests, I suppose.

I chastise him over his imprecise measurements. (Quietly, so as to not distract our classmates or the teacher.) Snow teases me over how exacting I am. (With far less consideration for the others.) It’s all just playful ribbing. There are no stakes. There’s no one to impress.

Here, we’re not sworn enemies. We’re not heirs. We’re not even mages.

We’re just two boys on holiday, learning how to make mince pie and Yule logs.

It’s stupid. And fun. And I can hardly believe my luck.

Despite his carefree measuring and graceless fingers, Snow’s creations come out better than my own. Or perhaps I’m just so sick with love that I would eat anything made by him.

Which I do. Snow is feeling cheeky enough to feed me a bite, and I’m feeling senseless enough to indulge. (I’m mindful of my fangs—I’m not _that_ far gone.) (Thankfully, meatless food typically doesn’t trigger them much.)

I do find Snow staring at my mouth occasionally while we snack on what we baked, as well as the provided lunch—complete with a glass of a lovely white wine I can’t be bothered with knowing the vintage of.

“See something you like?” I dare ask him.

Snow flushes with all the bluster you would expect of a straight man. “Fuck you,” he says with more humour than hostility.

I scan the spread of successes along our workstation. Most of the students in the class came for the day and will be leaving for home with their creations—whereas Snow and I will be staying in the hotel with only a mini-fridge at our disposal.

“What are we going to do about storing all of this?” I ask him.

Snow points to his stomach. I roll my eyes.

“We’ve been tucking in all lunch and have barely made a dent.”

“I’ve got room,” Snow assures.

“Of course you do.”

Somehow, I let him convince me that I have room as well. We eat a good deal more before the gathering is broken up. We trudge back towards our room with our arms full of baked goods and our stomachs even fuller.

I plop my mince pie onto the desk, then collapse on the bed. There wasn’t enough of my Yule log left to bother keeping. I am brimming with regret—and chocolate buttercream.

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever seen you eat,” Snow says.

“I hope you enjoyed it, because I might sick up.”

“Don’t be a baby.” Snow flops face first along the foot of the bed, lying width-wise.

“He says, while lying prostrate at his enemy’s feet, too laden with flour and lard to consider self-preservation.”

Snow snorts into the mattress. “You’re too stuffed to be a threat.”

“For once, Snow, you’re right.”

Within a matter of minutes, Snow has dozed off. And I succumb to postprandial somnolence shortly thereafter.

* * *

Nearly two hours later, I claw my way out of my sugar coma (and spend a moment staring at Simon Snow’s drooling face), then go use the loo. When I return, Snow is sitting up on the bed, rubbing his eyes and stretching.

“Right,” he says. “Tea, then archery?”

* * *

The tea helps settle my stomach. Snow only eats one roast beef sandwich and two scones with his tea. Then we head out with the archery instructor while we still have the daylight for it.

Snow _has_ done this before. The instructor needs to spend no time with him at all. She focuses her energies on me instead.

I’ve never been in a situation before where Snow knows something I don’t....

It’s aggravating.

Snow cackles when my first few attempts prove extremely embarrassing.

“Laugh it up while you can,” I huff at him.

Thankfully, Snow was right: I do enjoy it, and I pick it up fast enough. The instructor seems impressed, which I only put so much stock in—I’m far more pleased with myself once I see Snow frowning at me.

“Of course you’re a natural,” he grunts.

I grin. “Did you expect otherwise?”

He rolls his eyes. “No.”

Snow was right about something else, too: he really has no patience. I’ve got off far fewer shots than he has, but my success percentage is higher.

“When did you learn to do this?” I ask while nocking a new arrow.

“Started in second year,” Snow says. He shrugged off his coat at some point—it takes all my restraint to not leer at his arms as he works. “The Mage wanted me to learn all sorts of weapons. Swords, obviously, and shields, arrows, pole arms....”

“Pole arms? They must have been bigger than you.” I raise the bow and begin drawing the string. “You were awfully small until third year.” Not so small now.

Snow snorts. “Yeah. Thought I was finally going to be taller than you for a little while, but then you sprouted up again. You’re still a bloody bean pole.”

I smirk. “You’re jealous.” I let the arrow fly. It lands in the seventh ring. Not bad.

“I’ll catch up to you one day,” Snow says. He picks a new arrow.

“You most certainly won’t.”

“You can’t grow forever.”

“Neither can you.”

Snow’s next shot lands in the fifth ring.

I smirk at him “Amateur.”

* * *

Snow and I go back to the room before dinner. I walk a few steps behind him so I can soak in the way his tee shirt hugs his back as he stretches over and over. To further torture me, he keeps rolling that indecently long neck of his. It’s quite the show.

“‘M gonna be sore tomorrow,” Snow says as he lets us back into the room.

“You should have a bath later.”

“Oh, you mean you’re not gonna hog it all night again?”

“I will if you keep it up.”

Being able to talk with him like this is remarkable. He’s hardly stopped smiling at me all day. As if he actually enjoys my company.

Perhaps it truly _is_ the most wonderful time of the year....

We do some sprucing up before heading down to the lounge for dinner. In my case that entails trying to salvage my wind-swept hair in the bathroom mirror while Snow shoulders in to peer at his reflection. I insisted he put on a nicer shirt, only for him to tell me he didn’t have anything other than ratty tees. Now, he’s scowling at the ill fit of the button-up I lent him. It’s navy with a dark paisley pattern on the collar and placket. It looks absolutely sublime with his complexion.

“I look like a complete wanker,” he complains. “And it’s too tight in the shoulders.”

“I’ll spell the fit better in a moment.” I hope he doesn’t notice the way my gaze runs over his reflection. I can’t help it—he’s just been eyeful after eyeful this evening. “I can’t believe you didn’t pack a single adult shirt. What were you going to wear at the Wellbeloves?”

“I did pack a _single adult shirt_ ,” he mocks. “But if I wear it tonight _and_ on Christmas Eve, you’ll complain about _that_ instead.”

“Hm,” I emit, which is agreement enough. I open my jar of pomade.

“Ugh.”

“What?”

“I hate when you do that.” Snow keeps tugging at my shirt, intent on stretching it rather than waiting for me to spell it. I would mind more if I didn’t adore the sight of the fabric straining over his chest.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Slick back your hair like some mafia boss,” he harrumphs. “It looks much better when you wear it loose.”

I lift my eyebrow to maximum extension. “I wasn’t aware you had a preference.”

Snow quickly averts his gaze from me—my reflection—his cheeks going pink. “I wouldn’t put it like _that_.”

Interesting....

I decide not to push my luck. In fact, I somehow manage to refrain from needling Snow too much for the rest of the evening. And even though he gets all demanding and suspicious when I cover my mouth while eating dinner, he doesn’t actually push it too far.

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

“I’m self-conscious,” I told him. It’s vague but true.

“You’re the cockiest git I know,” he said. “But…I suppose everybody has something they’re self-conscious about.”

I could hardly believe the concession. I can hardly believe _any_ of this.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Then, it does.

While Simon is waffling over whether or not to order dessert (”Yeah, I _know_ we’ve got stuff in the room still, but the soufflé sounds _amazing_.”), I make the foolish mistake of checking my mobile.

I turned it off last night, and I’ve been so preoccupied with Simon all day, I completely forgot to turn it back on. The only reason I think of it at all is thanks to the lounge music—that Christmas song by The Waitresses comes on and reminds me of Fiona.

There are a few more texts from her, all the usual fare. Plus two missed calls from my father, and another one from Daphne.

There is also a text from Daphne. It’s simple and sweet:

— _I won’t bother you with more calls, but please know that you can contact me if you need someone to talk to, dove._

She is entirely too lovely, and I am awash with guilt.

It hits me now for the first time that I won’t be going home for Christmas. No cracker pulling with Mordelia. No watching the children struggle to stay conscious for Father Christmas’s arrival. No helping my parents carry them to bed when they inevitably crash. No amiable silence while sitting in front of the fire and sharing an after-dinner drink with my father—a very new tradition that I had taken a liking to. And no Christmas morning joy, none of that magickal energy upon seeing the presents under the tree in the early light, in that split second where the whole world feels still and calm and _good_.

It’s important to me, Christmastime. Ever since that first Christmas after my mother died, the holiday has taken on a far deeper resonance. Father always did his best to make the Christmases after that one as special as he could. To temper his guilt, I suppose.

Now I’m the one mucking Christmas up.

Or Snow is, I suppose. And I’m along for the ride.

That’s not entirely fair to him—I’ve had ample opportunity to drop this charade.

But I haven’t wanted to. Spending any amount of harmonious time with Simon Snow is already a Christmas gift I feel unworthy to receive—to have his company in such a picturesque, romantic setting is…well.

It’s too good to be true, isn’t it?

Because it isn’t. It’s all a farce.

Snow has selfishly upended Christmas for the Grimm-Pitches _and_ the Wellbeloves. All because he’s too much of a coward to simply tell the Mage _‘no’_ without some elaborate scheme that drives me to perform the vast majority of the legwork.

And, perhaps worst of all, he’s too much of a coward to fight me. To do what’s _right_.

I take a steadying breath, then pocket my mobile again. When I finally glance up at Snow, he’s staring at me.

“What?”

Snow’s expression is scrunched. “You look upset. Everything all right?”

I clear my throat. “Are you going to order dessert?”

“Um. No.”

I nod and remove my napkin from my lap. “Then, shall we?” I push my chair back and stand without waiting for his answer.

Snow scurries after me as I head for the stairs. I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head the whole time. Thankfully, he doesn’t question me further. I let us into the room and collect my coat. Snow does decide to question that: “Where are you going?”

“Just around the property. A little post-dinner promenade,” I say, buttoning up my coat. “You should take that bath.”

Snow is peering at me and chewing the inside of his cheek. I take advantage of the interminable process of Snow mulling something over and leave the room before he can complain.

On my way out, I stop by the boutique on the ground floor to pick up a pack of cigarettes.

I’m only a few paces away from the hotel’s back door when I hear it fling open again. More telling than his stomping, it’s Snow’s unique, delectable scent that alerts me to his presence.

“Go back,” I snap over my shoulder.

“No.”

I turn around to glare at him. Snow’s looking all flinty. Jaw locked.

“Go. Back.”

“ _No_.”

I inhale deeply through my nose while I try to plot my next steps. Snow is unmoving. Relentless. Of course. Where has that stubbornness been since yesterday morning?

“This goes against the truce,” I remind him.

“No—” Snow hesitates. “No, it doesn’t.”

“It most certainly does. You’re not allowed to stalk me _or_ insist I’m out to get you.”

Snow screws his mouth up in defiance. “Well,” he falters, “it’s not stalking if you know I’m following you, now is it?”

I bare my teeth. “ _Yes_ , Snow, _it is_.”

He grunts and dares to give me a mighty roll of his eyes. “What’s the big deal? I already know! I’ve known for years.”

“If you are so confident in what it is you supposedly know about me,” I spit, “then why the insistence on seeing it with your own eyes?”

Snow glowers. It’s evident he doesn’t know what to say to that. “B-because....”

I slowly lift one eyebrow at him. We’re far enough apart that I’m not certain at first if he’ll see it. Given the bluster he’s building, I think perhaps he does.

A bluster is good. A bluster I know how to work with. This is one of the most routine things to have happened in the past thirty-six hours.

I stride up to him, sure to be smooth and menacing. I stand close enough that I can stare down my nose at him to full effect. “You want evidence. What is it you’ll do if you ever get it, Snow?”

Snow frowns more. His cheeks are pink. I’m not certain if it’s from the cold or his agitation. Either way, it’s terribly lovely. “What?”

I drop my voice, both as an intimidation tactic and to minimize the chance of being overheard. (Snow has no decency—zero consideration for the other guests, forget for _my_ privacy.) “Have you thought it through at all?” I rumble. “About what would happen to me? What they would _do_ to me?”

Snow’s face falls. “I...I wouldn’t _tell_ anyone....”

I release an indignant sound. “You’re always telling everyone!”

“Not—!” Snow cuts off his yelling. He grunts, then lowers his voice to match mine: “Not any _more_.” He dares to look sheepish about it. “Not since fifth year.”

“How generous of you,” I hiss.

Snow squares his shoulders and leans into the diminishing space between us, all bravado. “I thought better of it, all right? I wouldn’t do that now.”

As if I’m supposed to be moved by that. I sneer. “Then why the insistence?”

“I...I want you to trust me.”

Snow’s blue eyes are so focused, so clear. I was right—the Christmas lights make them sparkle. He’s a vision. He’s my constant undoing.

Except in the ways I need him to be. 

“The last time I trusted you,” I remind him, as cruelly as I can, “I had to flee from my family for Christmas.”

“Oh, yeah,” Snow snarls low in his chest, “how fucking awful of me. How dare I not want anyone to die on Christmas! So sorry to have mucked up your present to your dad, Baz. I know you were really looking forward to serving him my head!”

SIMON

For a second, Baz looks like he wants to sock me in the jaw. Then it passes, and he just looks...I don’t know.

Tired, maybe?

“There’s only one way that battle could go, Snow.” It sounds like a sigh when he says it—like a sad sigh—like he’s a tyre losing all his air. His shoulders droop and everything.

“What does that mean?” I don’t deflate. I’m too curious.

Baz steps back, putting some distance between us. “You’re the Greatest Mage. The Chosen One.”

“So?”

“ _So_ ,” Baz says, glancing away from me with this tight look, “I don’t really stand a chance, do I?”

I feel like there’s a boulder in my stomach. I do deflate now. “You…you’re always going on about killing me.”

“I stopped trying after fifth year.”

“You’re always saying we’re destined for it!”

“To fight, yes.” Baz stuffs his hands in his pockets. He’s looking more and more weary the longer we talk. He won’t look at me at all. “I have no illusions about the end result.”

I grab his arm. I don’t know why. I can feel how cold he is, even through his layers of shirt and coat. He needs to feed, and then he needs to get inside. But I don’t want to let this go. It’s too important.

“I don’t want to kill you,” I blurt. “I don’t want to fight. At all. Not any more.”

Baz gives my hand on his bicep a glare. “Why?”

“It…it became…too real. Too imminent.”

Baz finally makes eye contact with me again. His face is tense even though the rest of him is all slack. “So you’d rather leave it to the Mage? To the Coven?”

“What?”

“They would do so much worse than kill me.” Baz’s voice is low, but it doesn’t have any of the hissing passion behind it like before. “They’d lock me in a tower. Steal my wand and my teeth. And that’s if I’m _lucky_.”

I grip his arm harder. “I won’t tell,” I repeat with as much sincerity as I can get across. “I swear it.”

Baz stares at me for a beat, then sighs again. He looks away. “Please go.”

I let my hand fall away from him. I take a step back. Baz hesitates a moment, and then he’s gone, slipping off into the trees.

* * *

I wait on a bench near the rear entrance for Baz. Sometimes he’s back real quick from his hunts. Sometimes he stays gone for a long while. I’m figuring that given the cold, this will be one of the quick ones.

After about fifteen minutes, I can make out Baz’s silhouette coming through the trees. He pauses—he’s spotted me, too. I stand and step forward a bit, trying to look welcoming. Or something.

Baz continues walking towards me—towards the hotel. Once he’s near enough that I can see the lanterns lighting up his glare, I step forward more.

“You look warmer,” I say.

“Walks are good for that.” Baz pauses not quite an arm’s reach away.

I reach up to touch his cheek. I don’t know why. He’s lightly flushed and the temperature you’d expect.

Baz’s narrowed gaze never leaves mine. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me watch him.

I don’t know if I’ve seen him right before and right after like this. The change in him is more obvious now than ever....

I wonder what he drank.

“Would you be heavier if I lifted you?” I ask.

Baz snatches my hand away—too fast. “What kind of a question is that?” he hisses. He squeezes my hand—too tight.

“Careful.” I’m wincing a bit. “The truce.”

That startles him. Baz drops my hand and takes a quick step back. “I—” He clears his throat, then steps away further. “Go inside, Snow.”

“Come with me.”

Baz shakes his head. He starts walking away.

“C’mon, Baz,” I half-yell. “You just got warm.”

The wanker ignores me and keeps going. I rough up my hair. I consider going after him…but think better of it.

* * *

I don’t take a bath. A quick shower is long enough to be stuck with only my own thoughts.

The bed is comfortable. I spend some time sitting up against the headboard and watching the telly.

Baz still isn’t back.

I’m lying awake in my makeshift bed for an hour or so when Baz finally slips into the room. He’s moving so quietly. I can only just see the shape of him in the dark. He has no trouble navigating the space.

Once Baz has shed his coat and shoes and got changed and crawled into bed, I finally speak up, softly: “I’m sorry.”

I hear him sigh. “For what?”

“For,”—I swallow—“pushing you. When you were already upset about something.”

“I just wanted some time to myself.”

The room’s not that big, he’s not that far away—can hardly make him out, though. “Well,” I whisper to the lump of him, “next time you want space...tell me. I can be the one to fuck off. All right?”

Baz doesn’t say anything. He just rolls over and pretends to sleep.

He smells like smoke.


	3. Monday, December 22nd, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I changed the fic's title. It was originally called "All I Want For Christmas..."  
> Sorry if I've confused you!

BAZ

Despite having no alarms set, Snow and I both begin to stir around our usual time. I suppose neither one of us is feeling comfortable enough to sleep in. I know I’m certainly on edge the second my brain wakes up that little bit.

Snow does what he always does: fumbles out of bed, ignores me, and heads for the loo. He’ll be in there a while. (You’d think knowing far too many details about Snow’s toilet habits would temper my love for him, but unfortunately it’s had no effect at all.) (Sharing a room with another boy your age for seven years means you stop being disgusted by each other, and eventually it actually becomes a bit amusing.) (Not that I’d ever let him know I could be so uncouth as to laugh at a fart.)

I stare at the ceiling and contemplate my next move.

My dreams were stressful, though I can’t recall what they were about. Probably nonsense, like most dreams. While I may not remember it, I’m still plenty anxious. I’m certain it has to do with my family.

Eventually I hear the toilet flush and the sink running, and then Snow emerges. His bed head is truly a sight this morning—all shoved flat to his head on one side, with the other side sticking out like mad.

I sit up. “Snow,” I begin, “I want to talk.”

He pauses mid-step, immediately on edge. “About what?”

“I was thinking: It’s all well and good that you and I don’t intend to participate in the raid. And I know you’re of the misguided opinion that the Mage will call the whole thing off without you at his elbow,”—Snow scowls at me—“but I think there’s more we can do to protect the Families.”

Snow’s mouth screws up more. “I’m not trying to—” He shakes his head.

“I know,” I say, perhaps too tersely. I _know_ Snow isn’t doing this to protect them. Us. Any of us. We’re not under his heroic purview. (It stings for him to confirm it, though.) (Can’t I be satisfied that he doesn’t want to kill _me_ , specifically, at the very least?) “It’s Christmas, Snow. Can we agree it’s right shit of him to steamroll Christmas with fascism? Isn’t it enough it’s been steamrolled by capitalism?”

This, Snow cracks a smile at. “You posh tosser. I bet you get all sorts of ridiculous presents.”

I wave my hand. “Don’t distract me from my point by reminding me of all the gifts I’m going to have to wait an extra day for because I’m spending Christmas with _you_.”

Snow scoffs a laugh—he knows I’m not being serious. “Right, yeah, you poor thing.” He turns around, back into the bathroom. “What’s your plan?” he asks, leaving the door open to continue our conversation while he begins brushing his teeth.

He’s somewhat tucked out of my sight, so I look at my hands instead, folded in my lap such as they are. “The Mage doesn’t know that you know about the raid, correct?” I wait for his garbled noise of agreement. “Which means he doesn’t know that _I_ know, or that I have informed my father.” I pause—Snow makes a sound that might be an impatient _“and?”_ , so I continue. “So, the Mage thinks that he still has the element of surprise on his side. What if he didn’t?”

Snow pokes his head through the door now to blink at me. His brow is furrowed, and there’s a bit of toothpaste escaping his mouth. He’s a lovely disaster.

I regard my hands again because having a conversation with Snow while he’s brushing his teeth is strangely intimate, and I’m embarrassed by it. I need to focus. “He might reconsider if you tell him you’ve told us. Me. However you want to spin it. He might not feel confident enough to persist if he knows we’re at the ready for him.”

Snow continues merely staring at me with stern confusion while brushing. Then he ducks back into the bathroom to spit. “I don’t even have a way to contact him,” he says over the noise of the running water and him splashing his face and brush clean.

“You don’t have his mobile number?”

“Never seen him answer it, so I never bothered to remember it.”

“Does Bunce have it?”

“Maybe.” The water turns off. “But I don’t have hers. I’ve not got a mobile, Baz,” he says like I’m the one being stupid. “And Penny doesn’t keep an _illegal one at Watford_.”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see it. Especially because he can’t see it, really. “Let me think.”

We could send a bird, but that’s tricky when you’re not certain of the receiver’s general location. The Mage is likely not on campus, and I doubt Snow has much of an idea where he’d be otherwise. Plus, there are ways to trace back the sender’s location, which is obviously something we can’t risk.

_Do I know of anyone who would have the Mage’s number?_

I snap my fingers. “What about Wellbelove?”

Snow comes out of the bathroom, drying his face with his tee shirt. Seeing his bare stomach while I’m sitting here in bed—in this specific bed that still smells like roses—sends a hot pulse of desire through me. I clench my jaw and force myself to look unaffected.

“I think I remember her house number,” Snow mutters, blessedly ignorant of my desires to yank him over me.

 _Focus, Basil_. We’re talking about his (ex-)girlfriend for Crowley’s sake. No amount of falsely calling me his boyfriend is going to result in Snow crawling into bed with me. Not _again_ , anyway.

(I’ve been trying extremely hard not to think on that moment.) (It’s a chore.)

I clear my throat. “Good. Let’s give the Wellbeloves a ring.”

“You think Agatha has the Mage’s number?” he asks, face scrunched with incredulity.

“No, but her father certainly will.”

Snow ponders this. It’s a ludicrously evident process. Finally, he nods. “Yeah, all right, suppose he would.”

I sit cross-legged on the bed, and Snow sits at the foot of it, one leg tucked up under him, the other dangling off. He gives me the number and we bicker about who should do the talking. About what we should even be asking.

Snow ultimately agrees with me: he’ll do the talking and tell Dr. Wellbelove that he and the Mage got into a bit of a row, so he wants to call and figure things out.

Unfortunately, he’s horrifically awkward about it. All bumbling and stuttering. I dip my head back against the headboard and close my eyes—if I look at him, he’ll only get more flustered. And I fear I won’t be able to hide my expression of mixed contempt and compassion.

It’s a painfully awkward ten minutes. The call isn’t on speaker, but I can hear the other side just fine. Dr. Wellbelove informs Snow that the Mage called, looking for him. Once Snow is able to bumble his way out of that topic, Dr. Wellbelove moves on to expressing his regret that Snow won’t be joining them for Christmas and makes three attempts at some variation of, _“would you like to speak with Agatha?”_ Snow’s mangling his hair and his cuticles the whole while. He’s bouncing his leg, too. It’s shaking the whole bloody bed.

“ _Christ_ , that was awful,” Snow bemoans once he’s hung up. He chucks my mobile at me, as if _I’m_ the one who ruined his relationship with Wellbelove. (Not for lack of trying.) (You’d think I’d be happier. Instead, I’m merely confused and greedy for more.)

“At least it’s done with.” I hand him the hotel notepad where I jotted the Mage’s number down.

Snow takes it, frowning. He’s been frowning all morning. “If we call him…do you think the Mage can find our location?”

I stare at Snow’s ducked head, at his tumble of bronze curls. It’s no longer all matted on one side. “Hopefully not,” I say. I _do_ think it’s possible…though unlikely.

To be safe, I cast **“without a trace”** on my mobile. It’s a spell I’ve only ever used to cover physical tracks. I’m not sure if it will work for this. Technology and its relationship to spellwork is hardly covered at Watford, thanks to the Mage. I can only assume his distaste for it means he won’t even think of trying to pinpoint the location of the call.

Snow is attempting deep breaths to prepare himself. It seems as if he’s only riling himself more. After a solid minute of watching his anxiety build, I finally snatch the phone from his hands, hit the call button, then shove it to his ear.

“Damn you—” Snow grinds out through his teeth. Despite his protest, he does take the phone from me and let it keep ringing.

And ringing.

Snow’s magic leaks out as the tension builds. We’re both holding our breaths.

After the fifth ring, something connects—his voicemail, I immediately assume—but then I hear it. “Who is this?” comes the Mage’s demanding voice. Snow’s heart rate spikes.

Snow’s too busy choking on his tongue to answer right away, but by the time the Mage questions him again, he manages. “It’s Simon Snow, sir.”

“ _Simon._ ” The Mage sounds terribly relieved. So much so that Snow’s shoulders droop and he lets out the breath he’s been holding. “Thank magic. Where are you? I’ve been looking for you.”

This, I can’t look away from. Even though it hurts to see how touched Simon is from the Mage’s words. I want to shake him. _It’s not because he cares for you!_

“I—I’m with Baz. Somewhere safe.”

“Tell me,” the Mage demands. “I’ll have someone come collect you.”

I can’t resist a small scoff. He’ll send someone! Like collecting Simon is just some errand he can pass off to one of his Men.

“Sir.” Snow’s voice is unsteady. He gulps. “I was thinking, um, you know. Because. Well, it’s Christmas, so—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s an awful time to make a move against the Families,” he finally blurts.

“Simon,” the Mage rumbles with far less warmth this time. “You know why I wanted you to come with me, and you still disobeyed?”

“That’s—that’s _why_ I disobeyed, sir,” Snow manages. “It’s wrong. It’s cruel.”

“They are the cruel ones.” The Mage’s voice is tight and gravelly. “Don’t forget that. If it were up to them, you wouldn’t be allowed at Watford.”

“I—I know that—”

“They have made themselves our enemy.”

Snow swallows. He opens his eyes and avoids looking at me. “Yeah, but—but they’re still _people_ —”

“Don’t let Basilton deceive you. The Pitches only look out for their own. They’re trying to turn you against me, Simon.”

“Baz hasn’t— He. He wouldn’t—”

I’m flexing my jaw over and over, trying my damnedest to keep my aggravation in check. Snow’s increasingly discomfited. His magic is wafting from him with each fidget. It’s maddening to watch the Mage’s words worm their way inside him.

“He _would_. You know him, Simon. You know what he’s capable of. What he’s attempted for years now.”

Simon’s gaze locks to mine. I can see the faint flickers of his hatred for me in his eyes. Every word of the Mage’s stokes that fire further. “You always,” he chokes out, “i-ignored me when I told you those things about Baz.”

“I wanted him to sharpen your blade. I wanted you to know your enemy,” the Mage urges.

Simon turns away and rubs his hand over his face. It’s painful to watch. My chest is tight and his magic is thick and there’s nothing I can do.

“Still, even— Either way it’s not right,” Simon persists. “To raid their homes on Christmas. It’s _not right_.”

“They are the ones putting us in this unfortunate position,” the Mage goes on. “They keep pushing, keep trying to grab back their power. I have to put them in their place, Simon—they’ve let us no other choice.”

Snow glares at me again, as I have any idea what the Mage is going on about. It would be wise to look at him imploringly, but I can only manage a defensive sneer. Snow squeezes his eyes shut again to collect himself. “Sir, I— I told them. I didn’t— I don’t want them to be surprised on the holiday. It’s not fair to the children, at least.”

There’s a beat of silence from the Mage’s end that’s nearly palpable. “What do you mean you told them?”

I watch the dramatic bob of his Adam’s apple. “The Pitches know about the raid and have informed the other Families,” Snow struggles to get out.

“ _Simon_ ,” the Mage snarls. We both flinch, though Snow far more so.

“I’m sorry—” he blurts. “I’m sorry, I just— _Sir_ , I just—”

I can hear the Mage’s fury in his every breath. I’m chilled by it. I’ve never seen Snow look so cowed. It makes my own fury coil tighter behind my ribs.

“I need to go clean up this mess you’ve created,” he growls. And then the line goes dead.

Snow is unmoving for a terrifying moment—

Then he leaps to his feet, releasing a string of profanity in a growl that sounds far too similar to the Mage’s. I don’t have time to build up an appropriate level of disgust for that, thanks to Snow wheeling on me with wild eyes.

“Dammit, Baz! Tell me what you know,” he demands.

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you raving about?” I get to my feet as well. I refuse to let Snow loom over me like a madman.

“The Mage said your family’s left him no choice,” Snow booms, gesturing with my mobile still clutched in his grip. “What did he mean? What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything,” I snap. “Though I can assure you that whatever it is the Families have done, it doesn’t warrant being dragged from their homes!”

Snow’s fervour sizzles out enough that I can see the fear in his eyes. He struggles, mouth going through all the motions of speaking, with no coherent sounds coming out. I’m starting to think he might let this go—but my mobile vibrates in his hand, and Snow’s gaze snaps to it immediately. His anger comes back full force.

“What is this?” he yells.

“I don’t know, I can’t see it, can I?” I hold my hand out for him to return my mobile to me.

Snow growls and throws it—with no real precision. It’s the deliberate, spiteful throw of someone mid-tantrum. The second I see him fling my mobile, I know it’s going to fly right past me.

I could save it, my reflexes are good enough.

I refuse to give Snow any more ammunition, however.

As my mobile crashes to the floor behind me, I keep my eyes locked on Snow. I want to bask in every twinge of emotion that flashes through him while he realizes what he’s done. There’s the crack and scatter of it coming apart, and I take perverse comfort in Snow’s chain reaction of emotions: shock, then horror, then a wave of guilt that I almost think will suffocate his anger, but then that seeps in at the end, too. I’m pleased by his flinch and the way his eyes dart to the side. He ducks his head, curls his shoulders. Snow’s anger is directed inward now, and it makes me desperate to hurt him further.

I won’t. I _won’t_. 

I _refuse_ to give Snow more ammunition.

Not that I intend to let him off without a mild tongue lashing. (Which brings other things to mind—things I’ll consider if I ever do manage to get any alone time during our break.)

“For fuck’s sake, Snow. Could you be any more childish?”

Snow merely grunts, still turned away in shame. I collect my wand from under my pillow, then pass to the other side of the bed where my phone lies in pieces. Thankfully, a **“good as new”** sets it right again.

“Is...is it all right...?”

I snatch my mobile up and scan through the messages for whatever it was that set Snow off. “Yes, despite your infantile efforts.”

There’s one unread message from Fiona with a timestamp from two minutes ago:

_— we need to discuss the plan, call me, enough fucking around_

Snow is scowling at me when I glance up. “Well?” he grunts.

“Well _what_?”

“Your aunt’s obviously planning something. You know something.”

“She’s _trying_ to plan something,” I correct. “I have no part in it.”

“I saw you on your phone at dinner last night!” Snow snaps. “You could have been planning this for weeks!”

“Planning _what_ , Snow? In case you somehow didn’t notice, I’ve spent the past several months at Watford. With _you_.”

“And with an illegal mobile!” Snow thrusts a finger at me and everything. “You could have been talking with them all semester.”

“Do you want to check my call history? My messages?” I throw the phone in his direction, at the bed. I don’t fucking care if it breaks again. “You’re insufferable. All of this was _your_ idea. How dare you start accusing me of things—especially the one time I’m _not_ antagonizing you!”

“Being nice for a few days doesn’t make you a nice person,” he spits.

I give him my worst sneer because it’s the only defence mechanism I have left. “You’re so quick to believe him.” I sound pathetically unsteady. “The Mage pours a little poison in your ear and suddenly you forget how earnestly you told me you don’t want to fight any more.”

SIMON

“I haven’t forgotten,” I tell Baz. I _haven’t_. “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want any of this to be happening.” I thump the leg of the bed with my foot. “But I’ve got no choice if you’re going to hide things from me!” 

“I keep telling you: I don’t know anything about the Old Families’ movements these past few months,” Baz hisses insistently. “Texting with my family during the holidays is not an act of mutiny.”

I flinch at that. “Then don’t skulk around when you do it! Everything you do looks suspicious!”

“You’re such a hypocrite.” Baz huffs out a humourless laugh. “You keep going on about _me_ trusting _you_ , yet I’m not allowed a moment without your scrutiny.”

“Well, maybe if you had a better track record, I’d be more comfortable around you!”

“I’ve been doing my damnedest to make you comfortable,” he seethes. “You’re not even _trying_ to grant me the same courtesy.”

“Why should I?” I shout. “I’m not the one who’s a blood-sucking dark creature!”

I regret it the moment it’s out of my stupid mouth.

Baz’s face twists up in this halting way, like he’s trying to hold it back but the fury is too powerful. He sets his teeth—bares them—and takes strong, forceful steps around the bed, towards me. I hold my ground, though it’s mostly because I’m too scared to move.

“If that’s all you think of me as,” he growls through his teeth, “then why are we here?” Baz looms over me with fire in his eyes. Those three inches he has on me seem endless. “Let’s be done with it. Cut me down already like you would any other dark creature.”

I can’t look away from his eyes—I can’t risk looking at his teeth and catching a glimpse of fangs. If I see them finally, like this, I don’t know what I’ll do.

“No,” I say with all the stubbornness I can muster. “I won’t.”

Baz looks pained by that. “Why?”

I can’t move—can’t breathe. I feel like my heart’s climbing up my throat. “I meant it—I don’t want to fight you, Baz.”

“Then stop. _Picking_. Fights.” Baz looks like he’s about to snap, then either tear my throat open or cry. And I’m not sure which one’s worse.

I’m trying to think of something to say, but my head’s all static-y again. My jaw is working even though nothing’s coming out. Baz loses his patience immediately, turning on his heel and flinging himself out onto the balcony.

One thought does finally come through the static: Baz has no coat on.

I groan and shake my head. _Fucking hell._

 _Am_ I picking fights with Baz? I know he’s been trying—but I’ve been trying also! I just— He gets me so on edge! I never know what he’s thinking. What he’s plotting!

I never know what _I’m_ thinking…

I feel mad.

This entire thing is _mad_.

I suck in a deep breath and hold it until my lungs ache. Then I open the balcony door. Baz doesn’t react at all.

“Don’t stand in the cold when I’m being a git,” I mutter. “I’ll fuck off. All right?”

Baz ignores me. Whatever. He heard me, that’s enough.

* * *

I go downstairs and take comfort in two rounds of breakfast. It’s as I’m leaving that I see Baz heading in.

He’s showered and dressed. His hair is meticulously gelled back, and he’s wearing a fully buttoned grey shirt with a deep purple cardigan over it and smart black trousers. A classic Baz look. Nothing at all like the Baz I saw yesterday.

That Baz—with his undone hair and undone shirt and snug jeans—feels like a distant dream.

His eyes meet mine. My heart’s immediately in my throat and my head goes all fuzzy.

Baz stops a few paces from me. “Snow,” he greets me, real distant like.

“Baz,” I say.

His eyes slide away to some place over my shoulder and stay there. “Already eaten?” 

“Ah. Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “You can’t claim I’ve poisoned your food, then.”

I let out a grumpy noise and roll my eyes. “Look.” I step a bit closer because he’s always so damn concerned about other people over hearing us. And because we’re supposed to be a couple. “Have a bite, then let’s regroup. Start the day fresh. We’re here, we’re on truce—I want to make the most of it, yeah?”

Baz finally turns his gaze back to me. “What do you have in mind?” He sounds wary. Suppose that’s reasonable.

“Not sure.” I shrug. “I’m the crap boyfriend. You’re the one that does the plotting.”

Baz slowly raises an eyebrow at me. Then he clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll think of something. Go change into a less embarrassing outfit.”

I stare down at my trackies. “Yeah, all right.”

* * *

I give Baz twenty minutes or so to eat, then head back down. I’ve got my jeans on, and I’ve pulled a hunter green jumper over my tee. It was a gift from Mrs. Wellbelove last year. It’s more posh than I’d like, but it’s really comfortable, even though I fill it out more this year than last. Baz nods approvingly when he sees me. I smile.

Then he turns me right back around to go collect our coats from the room. Wanker.

While I do that, he has the porter get the car.

“Where are we going?” I ask as I fasten my belt.

“There’s a town nearby,” he explains. “I thought it might do us some good to walk around somewhere different.”

It seems silly to feel cooped up in a place that’s so grand, but I think Baz has a point. I knew letting him plan the day would be a good idea. He’s a good planner. It’s nice to have it be a plan I can enjoy—rather than something that makes me go off.

We’re parked and out of the car in under an hour. I swing my head around the car park, trying to figure out where we’re at. Some kind of shopping centre?

Baz has already started walking off. “We going shopping?” I call as I jog to catch up to him.

“Yes, but not here.” He’s still being stiff with me. The car ride was a bit awkward. Thank magic for the radio. (The Christmas songs really got me in the spirit.) (And I _think_ I saw Baz crack a grin when I was singing along with Mariah Carey.)

“Why’re we here, then?”

“You’ll see.”

It’s as we’re walking along the overpass that I see it.

“Ice skating!” I crow.

I’m pretty sure Baz cracks a grin at that, too. “A brilliant deduction, Snow.”

The shopping centre curves, overlooking an esplanade that’s been converted into a skating rink. (At least, I’m assuming so—can’t imagine they’ve got a skating rink here all year round. But what do I know.) There are lights and decorations strung up, and an area for food and drink. It’s all tucked up against a medieval wall—which I’m currently hanging over to get a better view of the rink below.

“Come along, Snow.”

Baz keeps going, so I have to jog to catch up with him again. “Is that what we’re doing?” I blabber. “We’re going ice skating? I’ve never done it! Have you? Is it hard? Do we need skates? Do they give us the skates?”

Baz definitely is smiling now, even though he’s clearly trying to suppress it. “Yes, yes, for you, yes, yes.”

I shake my head. “What does that mean?”

Now Baz lets himself grin fully—or, well, as full as I’ve ever seen him grin. “Yes, we’re going skating; yes, I’ve done it before; _you_ will likely find it hard because you’re a bumbling disgrace as it is; yes, we will need skates; yes, they will supply them.”

I’m fucking beaming (even though he managed to get an insult in). “ _Brill._ ”

Baz seems awfully proud of himself.

We need to get checked in and fitted for skates. It takes longer than I’d like—I’m jittery with excitement.

“You’re going to teach me, right?” I ask him while we wait. I keep asking him things. And for some reason, he keeps answering. With minimal insults! It’s remarkable.

“I won’t be the one teaching you,” he says. “I signed you up for proper lessons. You’ll be in the toddler class.”

Baz is trying to look serious, but his eyes are sparkling. I laugh and shove his arm. “Fuck off,” I say. He snickers.

Eventually, we’re able to get out onto the ice. We’ve got a full hour to enjoy it. Which is good, because it might take me that long to even figure out how the hell to move without falling on my arse. I really do fit right in with all the littluns—they’re bumbling about with their parents, legs wobbly like newborn deer. At least when they’re struggling it looks cute—I just look like a mess.

“Come on, Snow,” Baz jeers with that blasted twinkle in his eye. He’s skating _backwards_ so he can look me in the eye as he taunts me. He’s perfection—I fucking hate him. “Do you need me to hold your hand?”

“No,” I grunt. I cling to the rail and barely manage any forward movement. A little girl glides past effortlessly. She can’t be older than six. “Maybe....”

Baz is all grace as he skates towards me, then smoothly turns at my side so he’s facing the same direction as I am. He takes my hand into his own. It’s cold. I hold on tight, Baz on one side of me, the rail on the other.

“How come you’re so good at this?” I mutter.

“I’m good at everything.”

“You cocky shit.”

Baz laughs. “I learned some as a child, and I go every year with my siblings,” he says while tugging me along gently.

I frown. “Oh.”

“Not here,” Baz adds. “In Winchester. We won’t run into them.”

I frown more. That wasn’t what I was worried about. “I’m keeping you from that, aren’t I?”

“I can take them next week. They won’t stay cross at me for long,” he assures. I’m not sure how I feel about that—Baz trying to alleviate my guilt. “Stop frowning,” he huffs. “Where’s all that excitable energy you had fifteen minutes ago?”

“Flew out of me once I realized I’d be balancing of bloody _knives_ ,” I groan.

Baz laughs again. It makes my pulse pick up—Baz laughing at me is usually a bad sign. He squeezes my hand. “You’ll get the hang of it. Baby steps.”

He doesn’t even say it with sarcasm, so it’s just my crap luck that I nearly go arse over tit the second it’s out of his mouth. “Fuck—” I yelp, but I don’t go down. Baz easily adjusts his stance to redirect my movement until I’m upright properly again.

I forget sometimes just _how_ fast and strong he is.

It’s not normal.

Nothing about either one of us is normal, though.

I guess in that way…we match.

“Watch your language, Snow,” Baz tuts. He sounds like he’s barely containing his humour. “There are children.”

“Right, yeah— Thanks.” I lean into him more since I know he can take the weight.

It turns out, Baz _does_ teach me how to go about it. I still nearly fall a dozen or so times—Baz always catches me before I go down. After a little while, I feel comfortable enough to let go of the rail, though I stay close just in case. And then, after a while more, Baz tries to steer me away from the rail entirely.

“Don’t you trust me?” he says with a signature lift of his eyebrow and a smirk on his lips.

“Only in this one very specific circumstance,” I say. I think I’m kidding—I think he knows it.

“Ah, yes. Baby steps.”

I smile and let him be my guide.

BAZ

There are a good deal of families on the ice with children of various ages. There are also a good deal of couples. Which, for reasons that still escape me, is the category Snow and I fall into as well. I haven’t fed since last night, yet I’m flushed with the sentimentality of it all.

I’m ice skating hand in hand with the boy I’ve loved for longer than I’ve known what love is.

I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this.

Tried, perhaps. Tried very, _very_ hard not to hurt him ever since he turned those fearful blue eyes to me and implored me to trust him.

He has no idea how much I trust him.

_My fate, my heart, my life…_

_They’re all in your hands, Simon Snow._

And right now, he’s in mine—clutching me, red-cheeked and cursing and laughing as I escort him along the ice.

He could run me through right now, and I’d still go with a smile on my face.

Snow is pouting shamelessly once our hour is up, so I pay (more than is technically necessary in order to bribe the attendant) to get us another hour on the ice. Snow was only just starting to get the hang of it, after all. I’m also rather loath to let the moment end.

His enthusiasm over his progress morphs into more confidence than he ought to have. Soon enough, he’s urging me to teach him how to glide backwards. I’m no stranger to arrogance, so I agree. Facing each other, both of our hands joined, I skate forward and Snow skates back. He’s magnificently awful at it. His skates go out from under him, and I yank him towards me to stop his fall.

Unfortunately, I over correct for his momentum and wind up knocking both of us off our feet. Snow crashes into me as we go down, my backside taking the brunt of it—not my head, thankfully.

Snow scrambles to push himself off me, but we’re tangled and he’s a disaster. “Are you all right?” he sputters.

I’m laid out on the ice with half of Snow’s weight on me. “Splendid,” I say. He thinks I’m being sarcastic. I’m not.

It takes us four attempts to get back on our feet. I can get up just fine on my own—trying to get Snow up is a different story. We’ll both have bruised knees and bums later. I don’t give a damn. It’s not frustrating at all. It’s delightful, really.

Once we’re finally up, Snow is shaken enough to want to head back to the rails for guidance. I crowd him more than is called for. He stares up at me with an unreadable expression, though not for lack of trying—it’s some jumbled blend of frustration and sheepishness and humour. And puzzlement, too.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh so much,” Snow observes.

“I’m in mirthful company.”

“Yeah,” he huffs good-naturedly, “laugh it up.”

I’m unable to resist slipping my forefinger up his coat sleeve, resting my touch along the skin of his inner wrist. His pulse is fluttering wildly. “You must be tired,” I say. He’s looking rather like his knees might go out.

Snow swallows. His grip tenses around my hand. “You must be freezing,” he counters.

“Shall we go elsewhere to warm up?”

“Wh— Um. What does— Where?”

I nod my head in the direction of the restaurant installed at the edge of the rink. “There’s a pub just there.”

Snow lets out a breath. “Oh. Yeah. I’d like that.”

* * *

We return our skates and get seated inside the Alpine Bar. It’s cozy and warm and smells heavenly. There are pine wreaths and garlands here and there, and it’s otherwise decorated to be reminiscent of a ski chalet. It has that perfect amount of kitsch to it. I happily sink into a gingham-clad armchair next to Snow.

“My legs’re all wobbly,” Snow grumbles as he plops into his seat.

“It’s another good night for a bath.”

“You think every night’s a good night for a bath.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” I hold out a hand to him. “Give me your ID.”

Snow screws up his face in suspicion, but starts fishing out his wallet anyway. “What for?”

“You need to be eighteen to get a drink,” I remind.

“You’re going to tamper with my ID?” He at least has the good sense to whisper it.

“We’re already fugitives,” I remind as I take it from him. “Might as well enjoy our time on the run.”

Snow gives me an inquisitive look, head cocked to the side while he tongues the corner of his lips. “You know, Basilton…I think I like you when we’re on truce.”

_Crowley._

“Enough to date me, would you say?”

“ _Ha_ ,” Snow emits. He shakes his head—it seems more like an attempt to clear us of the conversation rather than as an answer. His cheeks are pink.

* * *

Some snacks, two orders of mulled wine for me, and two draught lagers for Snow later, we leave the charming little bar side by side. This time when I jokingly offer Snow my arm, he laughs and takes it. I lead him away from the rink and the shopping centre, past the car park.

“Where are we going to now?” he asks.

“Shopping,” I say.

“I hope there’s food.”

“We just left a restaurant.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t _food_.”

Snow and I continue to bicker amicably as we make our way to the Christmas market some ten minutes down the street. We can hear the festivities before we can see it. The chattering crowd, live music—it’s a lively affair.

To my disappointment—but not my surprise—Snow pulls away from me to run ahead. The street is lined with merchant stalls, built with wood and topped with fake shingled eaves. All the façades and trees and lampposts are twined with lights. It’s already a festive view, though it’s surely spectacular once the sun goes down.

As I catch up with him, Snow spins around to beam at me. My heart swells. “This is ridiculous,” he rejoices. “Look at this place!”

“I see it, Snow.” I’ve never allowed myself to smile at him this much. We fall into step with each other and begin exploring the little shops.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Snow asks. His head is on a swivel—he’s trying to look everywhere at once.

“I want to find some gifts for my family, though I have no particular ideas.”

Some of Snow’s energy noticeably fizzles out. He chews his lip for a moment, then nods, renewed. “Yeah. All right. I’ll help you.” He bumps me with his arm. “Tell me more about them.”

Walking around with Snow, telling him about my siblings, picking out gifts with him…it’s more unfathomable than the ice skating. It leaves me more vulnerable. My skin prickles with each of his questions—Snow is _filled_ with questions. He’s always been excessively curious when it comes to me. If only he turned some of that insatiable thirst for knowledge towards his studies. I have to actively fight back the urge to be cruel in response. Which is more difficult than I’d like, and I don’t completely succeed.

I stare at his back as he storms off, and I realize I’m not entirely sure what I said to make him angry. He’s just so easy to torment—one little jab smoothly leads into another. Whipping Snow into a froth is familiar. Comforting.

Though…less so all the time.

He’s easy to find in the crowd once I take a moment to stretch my senses. Even if he didn’t reek of uncontrollable magic, I’m confident I could still catch his scent anywhere.

I find him at a stall with bespoke leather-bound journals. He’s hunched, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. I stand just behind his elbow, peering over his shoulder. Though he doesn’t budge, I can tell he senses me right away.

“These are lovely,” I say. “Considering one for Bunce?”

(Ah. That was what I mocking him with: who he buys presents for. It had started jovially enough but quickly went south. Given his temporary falling out with the Mage and his [temporary?] falling out with Wellbelove, who did he have left? It’s not like he had any family to bestow gifts upon.) (Cruel, I know.)

Snow is silent. I wait. Sometimes he doesn’t answer because he can’t find the words. Other times he doesn’t answer because he decides it’s not worth it. I’m the master of the cold shoulder, whereas Snow has perfected the art of suffocating silence. It’s hot and shimmers with his anger and magic.

“Don’t glare so hard,” I murmur near his ear. “You’re going to burn holes in them.”

Snow grunts and hunches in more.

All right. Different tactic, then.

“I smell sausages,” I tell him.

At this, Snow angles his head in my direction, though he still won’t look at me. “Yeah…?”

“Do you want? My treat.”

Snow rubs at his neck. “Everything’s been your treat.”

“That’s right.” I reach around him—he tenses—and I pluck up one of the journals. “It’s my way of repaying you for not murdering me on Christmas. Now, which one do you think Bunce would like?”

I’m flooded with relief when Snow takes a deep breath and his shoulders sag. “This one.” He picks up a book with intricate braiding and a pale purple stone embedded in the cover.

“Perfect choice,” I tell him with all the earnestness I dare reveal. I slip away from him and approach the shopkeeper. I pay for the book in Snow’s hand and the one I’m still holding as well.

Snow eyes my book as I steer us towards the sausage scent. “Who’s that for?” he asks. A touch of that curiosity from earlier is seeping back into his voice, thank snakes.

“My father,” I say. “That shop was a very good find, Snow.”

“All right,” Snow grumps, elbowing me in the side, “don’t lay it on so thick.”

* * *

Snow’s bright-eyed enthusiasm returns full force once he’s stuffed himself with bratwurst and another beer. I have another mulled wine and steal most of his chips. (He lets me.)

We peruse the other lane of shops. Snow is slightly wobbly.

“You’re a complete lightweight,” I mock.

“Am not! My legs’re all noodly from skating.”

“Yeah, me pulling all your weight was very taxing to your legs.”

Snow grunts. “Not everyone’s got fit legs like you.”

My eyebrow flies up. (I might be a lightweight, too.) “Have you been leering at my legs, Snow?”

“Augh, piss off!” He shoves me towards one of the stalls. We’re both laughing. “Focus on presents!”

As it turns out, Snow is skilled in picking out presents, even for people he’s never met. We find a lovely silk scarf for Daphne that is the exact brand of hackneyed she enjoys. Then, Snow drags us to a stall with all sorts of hand-carved wooden figures of various sorts and sizes. We find a set of cute animals for the baby—Snow frets whether they’re small enough for Magnus to choke on, but I convince him it’s fine. (It is.) (I think.) There’s a shop with wind spinners where we pick out a delicate option in pink and purple for Acantha, and then for Ophelia we find a gothic amber ring that should do nicely. (And will hopefully fit.) Lastly, for Mordelia, we construct a gift box with a salt candle, smudging stick, and charged crystals. 

“Isn’t that all bogus?” Snow whispers to me as we leave the last shop.

“Oh, absolutely. She’s an idiot,” I tell him.

Snow smiles. “You love her.”

“I do.”

We leisurely head back the way we came. Snow pauses in front of a shop, simply staring. I’m feeling bold from the wine and my ever expanding affection, so I press my hand to the small of Snow’s back and urge him towards the shop. He sputters.

“Don’t you want to look?”

“Ah, no, it’s fine.”

I bring us over anyway. It’s all vintage jewellery. Snow’s eyes skitter about, though he mostly seems fixated on the display lined with watches. They’re very attractive—I find my gaze drawn there as well. I move closer to them, which only seems to make Snow more jittery, though he does follow me.

“Feel free to try one on,” the woman running the shop tells us.

“Go ahead, Snow.”

He blusters over nothing for a moment, then sighs and takes one off the display. It has a blood-red leather band with an appealing amount of wear to it. The bezel is gold and the crystal seems spotless, no scratches as far as I can tell. It was clearly very well cared for. I lean over Snow’s shoulder to get a better look, and that’s when I see that the dial is mother of pearl.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.

Snow tenses. “Yeah.”

“Who knew you had such exquisite taste.”

He forces a laugh, then sets the watch back on its display.

“You don’t want to try it?” I ask, but he’s already slipping away.

“I want churros!” he declares.

I don’t bother hesitating. I shove a wad of notes at the shopkeeper—she immediately gets the hint. She tosses the watch’s box at me, and I squirrel it all deep into my bags. I give her a smile, she gives me a wink, and then I’m off to buy Snow churros.

* * *

I should have predicted that dating Snow would entail stuffing myself far beyond the point of comfort.

We all but waddle back towards the car park. Snow hums along with the Christmas music from the market until it’s no longer within earshot. It’s endearing, unfortunately.

I stop by the car to put our purchases in the boot. When Snow heads around to the passenger side door, I stop him. “Don’t get in,” I say. “We’re not done.”

“Oh? Where to?”

“There’s still one person I need to buy a gift for.”

Snow scrunches his brow at me. “Who?”

I smirk. “Myself.”

SIMON

Baz led me into the posh shopping centre that’s around the rink, under the false pretences he would be shopping for himself.

“You’re not supposed to deceive me,” I grunt at him. “It’s against the truce.”

Baz gives me a smarmy grin. “I wasn’t lying.”

“Then why,” I complain while some old bloke tightens a tape measure around my waist, “am I the one getting measured?” 

“Buying a ready-made suit for you to wear is entirely selfish, I assure you.”

I clench my teeth as the tailor gets his tape measure all up in my crotch. “How do you figure that?” I grit out.

Baz looks far too amused at my discomfort. “If you think I want to sit down to Christmas Eve dinner with you in your Watford trousers and ‘single adult shirt’, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Literally the only good part about any of this is that I’m standing on some kind of pedestal thing so I finally have a height advantage over Baz.

I try to complain more, but eventually I give up. This clearly _is_ Baz’s gift to himself—he’s fucking delighted. I’m not sure which part pleases him more: getting to faff about over suit options or forcing me to spin around and do his bidding.

I’m forced to try on four different suits, all of which Baz has something to mull about. The fit, the colour, the fabric type, whether or not I also need a waistcoat.

“I don’t,” I tell him.

“It’s charming you think your opinion is part of this equation,” he drawls.

After what feels like an eternity, Baz has made his decision. It’s a slim-fit wool suit with a thin grey-on-grey checked pattern.

“Grey?” I baulk. “Seriously? We wear grey trousers every day at school.”

Baz curls his lip. “That’s not remotely the same thing.”

He’s impossible.

He’s also…happy. So I really do try not to complain too much. It’s not like I’ve got the money to buy him anything. If this is how I can gift him a little something…well, then I’m all right with it.

Baz buys the suit, and a white shirt to go with it (which I don’t even bother pointing out is the same as my Watford shirt, because I know he’ll roll his eyes about it), and a sapphire blue tie (which he first holds up to my face to consider).

Then, the wanker makes me hold it all, too.

Baz whisks us out of the shop. “Come, let’s find you decent shoes.”

And that’s when I start laughing.

Baz stops a few paces ahead of me. He looks over his shoulder, surprised. “You’re…laughing?”

“Yeah. It’s funny.” I try to collect myself but snort and laugh more.

“What’s funny?” Baz frowns—in suspicion, I think.

“You’re dragging me around through a shopping centre, making me hold all your bags,” I explain through my snickering. “I mean—it’s a pretty classic date, innit?”

Baz blinks at me wildly. I’d swear he’s blushing, but it’s always so hard to tell on him unless he’s fed recently. He clears his throat. “A valid observation,” he admits. “Now, hurry up, _love_. I’m not letting you wear shabby trainers with a Hugo Boss suit.”

I grin crookedly. “Yes, _darling_.”

Baz looks like he’s about to choke on his tongue. He spins on his heel and strides off, sparing me whatever insult he surely just swallowed down.

* * *

I worried Baz was going to make wear ritzy wing-tips or something. Instead, he lets me do most of the picking out, so long as I choose something black.

“Why not brown?”

“Your suit is a cool grey,” he says, sounding weary. “Brown would look awful.”

“Sure, Baz.”

I find a sharp Chelsea boot that I really rather like. Baz has me try them on, walk around a bit.

“You’re certain the fit is good?”

“Y-yeah.”

“All right, then.”

Baz snatches up a pair of black socks before we head to the cash register. The second I open my mouth, he cuts me off: “I’ve _seen_ your socks, Snow.”

I close my mouth.

He makes me carry this bag, too.

* * *

As we head back to the car, I hear something…

I stop, listening for it.

“Carollers,” Baz says, reading my mind.

I stare at him. My face is lighting up, I know it. He stares back, deadpan. I grin wider.

Baz gives in, heaving a sigh. “ _Fine_.”

I drop the purchases in the car, then we head off in search of the music. Baz can hear them better than I can (vampire), so he leads the charge.

We follow along the remnants of the medieval wall, and just around the corner, there they are.

There’s a gatehouse with a big open area in front of it, and half a dozen carol singers are standing there, crooning away with a small crowd gathered about. The sunlight is getting dimmer, easing into a pretty sunset. It’s a beautiful scene.

Baz and I stand side by side, hands in our coat pockets, listening.

It’s nice.

It’s really nice.

We listen to two songs, and as they finish up a sweet rendition of _Joy to the World_ , Baz glances at me.

“Can we stay a little longer?” I murmur.

He raises an eyebrow, then nods.

They start singing _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing_. Baz dips his lips towards my ear.

“Are you religious after all?” he whispers.

“What?” I whisper back.

“I thought you only wore that cross to torment me.”

“I do,” I say. He raises his eyebrow again. I shrug and lock my eyes to the singers. “I don’t know. It’s just… _nice_.” (There’s got to be a better word—a bigger word.) “Like…the world they’re singing about. Doesn’t it seem lovely? A place that’s…you know. Kind and loving. _Peaceful_.” I frown. “At least for that one day.”

“That’s here.”

I look at him. “What?”

“That’s this world, Snow.”

I frown more. “Is it?”

“Yes,” he insists—as much as he can, given he’s whispering. “Thanks to you.”

I stare at him and try to think of something to say. I don’t come up with anything. I knock his elbow with mine instead. The corner of Baz’s mouth quirks, and he knocks my elbow right back.

We stay there a bit longer, close enough that our arms are pressed together.

* * *

A little while later, Baz and I sink into the car and head home.

I mean—not home. To the hotel.

Merlin.

We leave the gifts in the car and drop our coats in the room. I pick at mince pie that’s still sitting out while Baz does whatever in the bathroom. When he comes out, his hair is looser, expertly mussed, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone.

“Dinner?” Baz asks.

I flick my gaze up from his throat. “I could eat,” I say around the bite of mince pie still in my mouth.

Baz smirks.

We head down to the lounge bar for dinner. Baz still eats light, with a hand over his mouth. I don’t push it. We had a rocky morning—I don’t want to fuck things up again. Now’s not the time to find out once and for all about Baz’s vampirism. I’m having a hard enough time sharing a room with him.

I’ll hold off until we’re back at Watford. Where the Anathema will protect me. And where he can’t get away with draining me and dumping my body somewhere. (At least, I don’t think he can get away with it at Watford.) (Unlike here, in middle-of-nowhere Hampshire.)

As we eat and drink and manage a comfortable conversation, I push through the static expanding in my brain. Anxiety, I think. That no one knows where I am. That Baz could turn on me any minute. That we had such a nice time out. That I feel overwhelmed just thinking about how betrayed I would feel if he turned on me after all of this.

He’s smiling and his skin gleams in the dim light of the restaurant. We’re chatting like it’s easy, like we’re actually friends. I say something stupid about reindeer (I didn’t know they were _real_ ), and Baz laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that makes me laugh with him. A friendly laugh. I don’t feel annoyed he’s laughing _at_ me, though it makes my chest tight just the same.

After we finish dinner (and I finish dessert), we decide to go sit at the bar and have another round of pints. We’re turned on our barstools, facing each other more than the counter. I’m feeling warm and strange and relaxed. It makes me loose—stupid.

“If I ask you a yes or no question,” I start, “will you answer it?”

“That depends what it is,” Baz says, peering at me over the rim of his glass.

“Right, well, um.” I stare into my beer. I don’t know why this is one of the thoughts plaguing me through all the fog, but: “On the phone the other night. With your dad? Um, cuz he said— I mean.” I can feel Baz’s building frustration from my sputtering. I’m frustrated, too. I grunt and rub at my hair. Fuck it! I’ll just ask it. “Are you gay?”

Baz is quiet for a moment. I’m afraid to look at him. What if he’s angry? What if he’s upset? What if—? Then he shifts—and I’m such a predictable git—my eyes go right to him.

“I’ll answer you,” Baz says slowly. He’s the one staring into his drink, now. I can tell he’s trying to keep his face all impassive. “But first, I want you to tell me why the answer matters to you.”

“Cuz—well, because you’re my _roommate,_ ” I start, but then Baz glares at me, and I immediately struggle to explain. “Not like _that_ , I just mean—! I feel like. Like that’s a really big thing. A big part of somebody. And. You know. We’re not—we’re not _friends_ , I guess, but…but, well, maybe we could be. Maybe we are now. I’d like that, I think. And. And, well, that’s—” I rough up my hair again. _Ugh!_ I can’t get my thoughts out at all! “I know nearly everything else about you! So—!” I heave a shrug, then slump, out of steam. “So.”

Baz eyes me like he isn’t sure if he should be annoyed or amused. Which is better than looking like he wants to kill me, at least.

He hesitates. Looks back at his drink.

“The answer is yes.”

He takes a sip.

Oh.

I take a sip, too. I thought…well. I don’t know what I thought. It’s just…knowing, actually knowing, seems like something I should have a reaction to. Except…my whole jumble of thoughts have disappeared and all I’ve got now is a head full of static.

“Is it a problem after all?” Baz’s voice is sharp.

“No!” I whip my head to him. He’s squinting at me. “I was just…thinking.” Or not thinking at all, really? I don’t know.

Baz frowns. “What about?”

“Well, like....” I stare at Baz’s hand, at the way his fingers are tense around his glass. “How…did you…know?”

“That’s a stupid question,” he sighs. But he seems less icy, thankfully. “There was no _a-ha_ moment. How did _you_ know you were straight?”

I gulp my beer. “Um.” I swallow down a small burp from drinking it too fast. “I don’t— I mean. I’ve never. Never thought about it.”

“Exactly.”

“No, I mean—”

What _do_ I mean?

I’m not sure. What was the question?

I look at Baz. He’s staring at me like I’m being particularly daft. I suppose I am.

Baz licks his lips. “All right,” he says slowly. “For the sake of the discussion, let’s pretend the barkeeper is your type.”

I flick my eyes to her. Brown hair to her shoulders with a fringe, tan skin, petite. “All right....”

“And let’s pretend our waiter is my type,” Baz continues.

I try to recall what the waiter looked like. Sandy blond hair, cropped real close on the sides with a flippy bit on top. Ruddy complexion. Fit, tall, with long legs. Sunny smile. Green eyes.

I nod, so Baz goes on. “Now, when I look at her,” he says, with a faint nod in the barkeeper’s direction, “I see a rather lovely woman.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

“But, when I look at our waiter, I see the details. I’m _curious_ about the details,” Baz says. His voice is low—probably so we won’t be overheard sexually harassing the staff. “I’ll pay attention to the way his hair falls, or his freckles, or his laugh, or…the fit of his trousers.” Baz keeps his eyes trained to his drink. I think he’s embarrassed. Which is fine, because I might be embarrassed also. My face is hot. Baz clears his throat. “Does that make sense?”

“Maybe.” I take another big sip.

Baz thoughtfully drums his fingers on his glass. He can tell he’s lost me. “Okay, take Wellbelove for example.”

My eyes lock to his immediately. “What about her?”

“Easy,” he grunts, rolling his eyes. “I’m obviously not interested in her, Snow.”

That’s true...if Baz is gay, then.... “Then why are you always flirting with her?” I blurt.

“I don’t flirt with her, I just like to make you _think_ I’m flirting with her.” Baz waves a hand to dismiss me, completely ignoring my sputtering. “ _Anyway_ , in her case, I can look at her and appreciate the aesthetics. I believe we both can agree she has a wonderful seat.”

I blink at him. “What?”

Baz curls his lip. “Her _arse_ , Snow.”

I look off and try to picture Agatha’s arse.

Baz leans towards me, peering. I must be making a weird expression. “Are you…having trouble picturing your girlfriend’s rear?”

“She’s not my girlfriend any more,” I snap. Not that that’s Baz’s fault, actually....

“Right,” Baz trails. He keeps peering. “Are you more of a breasts man, then? That’s a pity. She’s not nearly as well endowed in that department....”

My ears and neck are burning. “No— I mean— I’m not— Agatha’s _fine_.”

Baz is giving me a look like he feels sorry for me. “You’re making this very difficult. Look, all I’m saying is, when I look at an attractive woman, I don’t see anything past the big picture, and I have no desire to. When I look at an attractive man, I want to drink in as many details as I can,”—he lifts his glass—“and use my imagination to…fill in the blanks.” Baz takes a long, slow sip.

Right....

I polish off the rest of my beer.

Is this my third one? It is, innit? Maybe that’s why I’m feeling so out of sorts. I haven’t done much drinking before—earlier today excluded. It feels like my skin’s on fire and like my brain can’t hold onto a thought no matter how hard I try.

And I _am_ trying. Trying to visualize what Baz is saying. Trying to visualize the difference between a boy arse and a girl arse. Except I can’t really compare because I can’t see the barkeeper’s arse from here, and I don’t want to keep staring like a lecher. And I can’t recall what Agatha’s arse looks in any detail at all. It’s just…an arse.

The only arse I can really picture is from yesterday.

Baz’s.

In those dark, snug jeans he had on.

“Well, um.” I push myself off my barstool, nearly losing my footing. “I think that’s my limit! I’m gonna turn in.”

Baz looks surprised. “Oh. Then—” His eyes shift to the remainder of his drink.

“No, no, stay, enjoy it!” I back away. “See you later!”

I ignore the bewildered look Baz is giving me, and I run.

BAZ

I don’t know what goes on in that head of his. Every time I think I’ve figured out something about what drives Simon Snow (other than food and fights), I wind up befuddled with something else—a strange reaction, a garbled response. Him straight up running away seems to be the new tactic as of late, and I have no clue what to make of it.

Snow’s wiped, I surmise. He’s used to barrelling forth, attacking without a thought, getting into all kinds of trouble. This mild sort of milling about appears to do far more damage to Snow than any goblin horde. He’s twitchy and scattered. Completely out of his element.

Not least of all because of all the time spent with me.

I wonder if we can even go back to being enemies after this. I’m not strong enough to continue the ruse of contempt. Snow is. And he’ll likely be desperate enough to be back in the Mage’s good graces to stake me clean through the moment it’s demanded of him.

After I’ve polished off my beer—plus a few squirrels—and convinced myself to simply appreciate it all as it comes, I head back to the room. Snow is sitting at the end of the bed, feet planted on the floor, knee bouncing. He’s chewing his thumb and watching CBBC.

“Some cartoons before bed?” I call as I deposit my coat and shoes near the door.

“I was expecting some kind of Christmas special,” Snow admits. “But it’s the same old programming.”

“Pity.”

I drop my phone and wallet on the bedside table, then collect my pyjamas and make for the bathroom. I take my sweet time—first a shower, with a hair treatment, then a long bath. It’s a wonderful way to end the day, and it assures Snow some more time to himself. (And whatever absurd thoughts are going through his head.)

It’s right as I find myself drifting off in the tub that I hear a buzzing sound. I believe it’s my phone, rattling along the tabletop. To confirm my surmising, I hear Snow call out to me:

“Baz! Your mobile’s going off.”

“Who is it?” I call back.

“Um—“ There’s rattling. “Says Malco— You put your dad in your phone with his name? Not ‘dad’? You’re a git.”

I sigh. “Let it ring.”

“What?”

“ _Let it ring_ ,” I say louder.

There’s more noise, scrambling. Snow’s come to the door. “He’s going to think I’ve killed you.”

“I’ve ignored numerous calls from him the past few days,” I assure, with thinning patience. The bloody thing’s stopped ringing by now anyway. “I thought you didn’t want me speaking to my family?”

“Not like _that_ ,” Snow groans. “Not if he’s going to think the worst.”

I knock my head back against the tile wall. “Go away, Snow.”

“Fine, but you— Oh, fuck,” he blurts. My mobile is going off again—I hear it immediately. “Baz, he’s calling back!”

“ _You_ talk to him if it’s so important to you,” I huff. “Go _away_.”

Snow mutters and thunks the door with his foot, then stomps off. The buzz stops mid-ring. My heart leaps into my throat when I realize why.

“H-hullo, sir,” I can hear Snow mumble.

I cannot believe he actually picked up. He is an absolute nightmare!

SIMON

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. "Mister Snow?” Baz’s dad questions.

"Y-yeah, yes, sir, that's me," I stumble. Merlin. What was I thinking, picking up?

"Where is my son?" He sounds right menacing.

"He's, uh, he's just in the loo, sir. Or, er, the bath, really, and—"

"Mr. Snow," he says. He's got this low, commanding voice. It's different than the Mage's. Less rumble to it. More smooth. Gives me gooseflesh. "I don't know what it is you've done to fool my son like this,"—I don't even try to interject—"but I would like to make it perfectly clear that I will not hesitate to act should the need arise. As both a Grimm and as a father."

I wait a beat to make sure he's done talking. Don’t want him thinking I’m being impertinent or some other such rubbish. Then I say, "Yeah, uh, yes. Understood, sir. I promise I'm not doing anything to deceive Baz." I'd like to point out that deception is more Baz's speed than mine, except now's not the time.

"Promises from the Mage's Heir don't instil confidence," Baz's dad replies.

I grimace. "Well, I guess, but. But I'm not really doing this as the Mage's Heir, am I?"

I'm not sure why I'm bothering to talk with Mr. Grimm at all, far less convince him of my sincerity. I think that's our best shot, though—sincerity. At making everyone see that we want no part in this war. That there doesn't need to _be_ a war. That Baz and I are better suited to this—whatever any of this is—than fighting each other. That we could be friends. Could be _happy_. Could see the far side of nineteen....

"And what _are_ you doing it as?" Mr. Grimm challenges me.

"As. As his boyfriend." It's a struggle to get the words out. My brain is fuzzy and my tongue is heavy. "As someone who doesn't want us to fight. I...I care about Baz, sir. I don't want to hurt him. I swore an oath with him. We're. I'm. He's safe with me. We're...safe. Together."

Mr. Grimm sounds well angry just by his breathing—Baz does the same thing, huffing through his nose this particular way. “What is it you’re hoping to gain with this game of yours?”

“N-nothing, sir. It’s not a _game—_ “ 

Except it is, really. An act.

(Fuck. How in the name of magic are we going to get out of this when the time comes?) (When _is_ ‘the time’?) (Will we have to do this until the war is over?) (Will it _ever_ be over?)

“My son will not be in a relationship with the Mage’s Heir,” Mr. Grimm insists. Like he gets to decide that for Baz!

“And why’s that, sir?” I ask. Fuck not being impertinent. “I may be his heir, but I’ve got no part in whatever the Mage’s political moves are. I’m here to fight the Humdrum and dark creatures. And I think being the Greatest Mage means I’m good enough to date Baz Pitch. Or is the problem simply that I’m a boy?”

Mr. Grimm clears his throat. “Of course not,” he says—I can hear the strain in his voice. “You’re not able to separate yourself from the Mage’s actions that easily, Mr. Snow. Your allegiance far outweighs anything else.”

He might be right—might be telling the truth. But it still sits badly with me, that Baz’s dad could be a prick about Baz being gay. He sounded so bitter on the phone the other day. And Baz seemed...hurt. Been bothering me ever since.

“Baz is happy with me,” I say before I can stop myself. “It’s _his happiness_ that far outweighs everything else.”

Mr. Grimm is saying something, but I can’t pay attention to it because Baz is stepping out of the bathroom and giving me a hell of a look. _Fuck_. I forgot he’s got vampire hearing or whatever—he’s raising his eyebrow at me, and I just know he’s been listening to all of this.

Baz’s hair is wet, and his skin is flushed from the warm bath, and he’s standing in the doorway, wearing his posh pyjamas and eyeing me with amusement.

My mouth goes dry.

“Um, sir—!” I blurt over whatever the fuck Mr. Grimm was saying, scrambling to my feet. “Baz is out now, I’m gonna pass the call to him!” I shove the phone at Baz.

His eyes don’t leave mine as he raises the mobile to his ear. “Hullo, father.”

Baz mouths _“thank you”_ to me, and I decide to make myself scarce. I grab my pyjamas and lock myself in the bathroom. I run the tap so I can’t hear him.

I don’t come out for a solid ten minutes, until I’m sure I can’t hear him talking even with the tap shut. Sure, I’m worried about what they could be plotting, but I can’t bring myself to care enough to face him.

Thankfully, Baz doesn’t mention it for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names for Baz's siblings are stolen from [BasicBathsheba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicBathsheba/pseuds/BasicBathsheba) and [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) 🖤


	4. Tuesday, December 23rd, 2014

SIMON

Baz and I both get up around the same time. Or, well, I get up and use the loo, and Baz wakes up from the noise I’m making. Usually he grumbles about waking up from my clomping about, but not today. He’s sitting up and rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair.

“Morning,” I say.

“Morning, Snow.”

Baz goes to use the loo next, and I take the time to change into joggers and a tee. When he comes out to get his own clothes, I slip back in to wash my face. I leave the door open, which Baz takes as an invitation. He comes back in and sets about shaving. I brush my teeth. We share the mirror.

It’s downright pleasant.

“I like this,” I say.

“What? You subjugating me to watch your frothing mouth?”

I hawk a loud, wet spit into the sink with plenty of noisy wind up, just to annoy him. Baz is looking truly disgusted. Good.

After I rinse, I decide to flip the toilet lid down and take a seat there. “I like being friendly with you,” I say. “I like…well, I like all of this.”

I have a good view of Baz’s profile—it’s a nice profile, even with that too-high nose of his. It’s very aristocratic, really. From the side like this, you can’t tell at all that the tip is crooked. (I did that.)

Baz mostly keeps his gaze focused on his reflection as he shaves, though he does spare me a brief sideways glance. “You like fake dating?”

“Um. Yeah. Sure, yeah.” I give him a sideways grin, though he’s not looking to see it. “I definitely like it better than fighting.”

I can see Baz’s lips twitch into a smirk that he gives up on suppressing halfway through. He glances at me properly this time, one eyebrow arched. “If you like it so much, Snow,” he purrs, “you better put a fake ring on it.”

My face goes hot and a laugh bubbles out of me. “Oh, a fake engagement?”

“Of course,” Baz says, with this genuinely playful tone that I’ve never heard before. (Usually, Baz’s playful tone is laced with something snarky—something that doesn’t bode well for me.) (I like this a lot more.) “It’s the natural progression.”

My cheeks are all pushed up from grinning. “And then a fake wedding,” I laugh.

Baz regards himself in the mirror again to continue his shaving. I can still see the curl of his lips and the sparkle in his eye. “A fake honeymoon! Some place tremendously cheesy and overdone, to really hit the point home.”

I lean back and laugh some more. “And then we buy a beautiful little house together,” I continue on, gesturing grandly with my hands to lay out the scene proper. “Some place cozy for fake newly-weds to start fake family planning.”

Baz angles back his chin to get the spots under his jaw. I can see his Adam’s apple bob as he chuckles. “A family?” He hums thoughtfully. “Do you want to be a father, Snow?”

“Never thought about it until now.” I stretch my legs out. “I think two kids sounds nice. Wouldn’t know the first thing about raising them, though.”

Baz hums again. I watch him drag the razor along his neck. All of Baz’s skin is so smooth, so well cared for. I’d have never guessed he needs to shave often. I don’t. But Baz is ahead of me in everything, so I really should have guessed.

“I think you’d be a good father.” He says it so simply, I almost don’t register it.

“Ah. Yeah?” It’s stupid to be so hard-pressed for Baz to think I’d be _good_ at anything. I’m full-on grinning again. “You’d be good too, I bet.”

“Mm?” Baz has his head dipped over the sink. He’s done shaving now, as efficient with this as anything else. He rinses off.

“You’d be the classic dad. Real strict and no-nonsense with the littluns. Sitting around in your study with a brandy in your hand, asking after their marks. And I’d be the cool dad that shows ‘em how to climb trees and jump turnstiles.”

Baz snorts. He washes off his razor, then starts opening a bottle of aftershave. I can smell it right away—typical Baz scent. Dark and woodsy with a hint of something bright.

“They’d always think they were getting away with something with me,” I continue, “but of course you’d always be a few steps ahead of us. Willingly letting ‘em misbehave now and then.”

Baz gives me another one of those sideways glances as he pats his cheeks. “Sounds like we’d have quite a good system worked out, Snow.”

My spine feels fuzzy and the back of my neck is hot. I think I’m over-hungry. “Heh. Yeah. Well.” I jump up and slip past Baz for the door. “You’re taking too long, I’m heading to breakfast without you.”

Baz doesn’t say anything, though I swear I can still feel his eyes on me as I shove my feet into my trainers and run out.

BAZ

By the time I head down to breakfast, Snow is on his second helping. We don’t have much time before the spa session I scheduled when we first arrived. I do have time for tea, at least.

Then we head off. I haven’t explored the recreational areas until now. The pool and spa are even more decadent than I assumed. Snow is a humorous combination of awed and horrified.

“This is absolutely mad,” he mutters as we weave past the massive pool which is seamlessly set into the marble flooring. We follow the girthy Romanesque columns that run up to the high ceiling. Everything is carved or gilded or both. Opulent. The exact type of elaborate that makes Snow scoff and harrumph and roll his eyes. 

He’s far less disgruntled when he realizes how much pampering he’s about to get. I expected him to take it worse, honestly, yet the moment the massage begins, I can practically taste his satisfaction in the air. Even over the aromatic massage oils and candles, I’m deeply attuned to the fluctuations of Snow’s scent and breath and pulse.

It’s all lovely.

It’s also unfortunately terribly erotic.

We were both instructed to strip (separately, thank magic) and given robes to wear. Rather short robes. It was a Herculean effort not to ogle Snow’s legs. He was rather obviously ogling mine for reasons I can’t quite understand. He’s a constant enigma. I’d be suspicious if I believed any sort of intelligent thought went through that head of his.

As we sat awkwardly while waiting for the massage specialists to arrive, it was impossible to not think about how easy it would be to slip Snow’s robe off his shoulders. And then the masseuses came and requested we do just that. Worse, we had to disrobe entirely and lay on our fronts, with merely a cloth over our bums.

I should have thought this through.

Not that I’m complaining. It’s beautiful torture. Though I am a touch worried I might make...an embarrassment of myself.

But I’ve had years of avoiding looking at Snow and keeping my lust for him concealed. So I make sure to pay him no attention during any of this, refusing to look his way. I merely enjoy my massage and relish in the sweet jumble of Simon’s scents and sounds mingling with the spa experience.

By the end of the ninety minutes, I’m feeling wonderfully boneless. The deep relaxation of it all was enough to let me keep my dignity, despite Snow’s occasional groans. He’s a brute. (I’m mad for him.)

“How do you feel?” I ask after we’ve both slipped our robes back on—and after I’ve pushed aside once more the mindless glee of being so very nearly naked in Snow’s presence.

“Good,” he sighs. His hair is mussed and he’s all heavy-lidded and flushed. _Crowley_. In stark contrast to my yearnings, Snow purrs the worst possible thing: “Wish I could bring her back to Watford with me.”

Ah, yes—how could I forget how brilliantly skilled Snow is at infuriating me? Especially with aggressive heterosexual posturing.

I sneer. “You’re disgusting.”

“Fucking hell,” he grunts feebly. “That’s not what I meant....”

I head off to the sauna, not caring whether Snow chooses to follow me or not.

* * *

He does, in fact, follow me.

Which is a new brand of torture. Now we’re sitting together (with as much distance between us as possible), clad only in small towels wrapped about our waists. Thankfully, there are a few other patrons of the spa in the sauna with us, which helps temper my pining. (Not very much, mind you.)

Snow dozes off—precisely what you’re not supposed to do. It spares us needing to attempt small talk, at least. I wouldn’t be able to tolerate it.

Once the others have left and I’m feeling rather like I might dissolve should I stay any longer, I make to leave. I stand before Snow and allow myself a moment to savour the sight of him, bare chested and gleaming with sweat and oils. The sight is only marred by his cross, ever-present.

I thank whatever powers that might listen for giving me these days with Simon Snow. Even the rocky parts.

I clear my throat. “Snow, wake up.”

He does, groaning and stretching. I make sure to not miss a moment of it. Snow stares up at me, his bleariness transforming into something I can’t name.

“We should go before you cook what few brain cells you have left.”

Snow’s eyes trail down...then he shakes his head and jumps to his feet. Too fast. “Yeah, right—“

“Careful,” I hiss, but it’s too late.

Snow’s immediately overtaken with wooziness. He sags my way. I don’t bother hesitating—I loop my arms under his as he crumples towards me with a comical “ _whoa_ ”. 

“You’re an absolute disaster,” I say, far too fondly. It’s impossible to be too gruff with him when we’re pressed skin to skin. We’re both sticky, which should feel far more disgusting than it does.

“Merlin,” Snow huffs. He steadies himself with his hands on my shoulders. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Good thing I was here to catch you. _Again_. That would have been an awfully embarrassing way to die.”

Snow huffs again, but this time it’s a laugh. He straightens up, though neither one of us are confident enough in his stability to let go just yet. “Yeah. Good thing.” He gives me a strange smile. “Um. Thanks.”

Numerous sappy responses go through my head, each one more saccharine than the last. I can’t say any of them.

“Are you done clinging, then?” is what I go with.

Snow stutters out some sounds of vague agreement and withdraws from me. Pathetic that even still within the sauna, I feel cold once he’s pulled away.

* * *

After our thoroughly self-indulgent morning and a light lunch, Snow decides he’s feeling stir-crazy again and wants to do something more exciting to round off the day.

Which is how I wind up beating Snow 7-3 at table football. He fares far better with table tennis, much more suited to this type of target-tracking. We tie at 5-5; I win the deciding match. Snow’s not as sore of a loser as I suspected—perhaps due to his familiarity with the concept.

The day has its ups and downs. We’re relaxed and playful with each other for the most part, yet we can’t rid ourselves of aggression entirely. Whenever I feel the urge to throttle him, I instead reflect on our mind-boggling rapport while I shaved this morning, taking comfort in Snow’s charming smile while he regaled me with our hypothetical child-rearing techniques. 

Speaking of family: Snow tenses and complains every time my mobile goes off. I’ve left it on vibrate today, checking my texts diligently. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and we no longer know what the Mage is planning—he could make his move at any moment. Each message has the potential to be a call for assistance, and I won’t ignore them to satisfy Snow’s paranoia.

My father has taken to texting me, rather than calling. He hasn’t brought up my relationship with Snow since they spoke. I refuse to let it get my hopes up—even if my father did give us his blessing, Snow surely won’t actually put a fake ring on it, despite our humorous musings on the matter. However, if I do truly live through all of this and get to see my twenties, I can’t help but believe my father will welcome any future boyfriend of mine simply due to the relief of said boyfriend _not_ being the Mage’s Heir.

I spend most of tea time on my mobile. Snow wolfs down the offerings, harrumphing with increasing aggression each time a new message comes in.

“That thing’s annoying,” he grunts.

“Yes,” I drawl while tapping away, “I’m well aware that you share your master’s distaste for modern technology.”

Snow thumps the table lightly with his fist. “Don’t be a prick, you know that’s not it.”

I send off my message, then give Snow my full attention. “I’m not plotting.”

“Didn’t say you were,” he grumbles.

“Only because the truce would punish you if you did.”

Snow grunts and shoves a cucumber sandwich into his mouth.

It’s true. He can’t accuse me, and I can’t lie. I’m truly not plotting. I’m merely fielding my family’s onslaught of questions regarding the raid. Not just from Fiona and my father—cousins of all sorts are volleying queries upon me. I ignore the ones about Simon being my boyfriend, otherwise answering as fully as I’m able.

It’s difficult to plan when there isn’t much planning to be done. Most of the Families refuse to relocate—they will celebrate Christmas as they intended, will put up wards, and will stand their ground if the Mage’s Men break down their doors. Some have taken a more cautious approach, travelling to properties that the Mage has yet to find or simply leaving the UK entirely until it all blows over—Fiona thinks they’re cowards. I disagree but don’t bother arguing the point.

Naturally, my family intends to stay put. Fiona is aggrieved that I won’t be at the estate to protect my mother’s property, though she doesn’t intend to, either. She’ll stay at her flat in London—she claims my mother’s more valuable things are with her there. I’m not sure if by valuable she means rich with magic or sentiment—perhaps both.

I trust that my father and Daphne will do their damnedest to protect the children. Though I’m terrified by the potentials just the same.

I’m not Snow—my magic doesn’t bubble up when I’m distraught. Somehow, he can read me anyway. He delivers a tap of his foot to my ankle. It appears we’ve developed a level of kicks and nudges that I dare say borders on affectionate. 

“Put that bloody phone away and finish your tea,” he demands. “I want to go for a walk.”

I pocket my mobile with a sigh. I could use the break, admittedly. I don’t want the spa’s relaxing benefits to be completely for naught. And I certainly can’t deny Snow requesting more time with me, even if he’s going to be unreasonably suspicious all the while.

I give Snow a faint smile. “As you wish.”

* * *

Snow and I head back to the room to collect our coats. (First, I pull a jumper over my shirt for extra warmth.) (Snow needs no such precautions.) Then we head out.

We still aren’t equipped with the correct shoes for it, but Snow insists we venture deeper along the walking trails. “Be a waste not to explore further,” he said. While I don’t see the appeal, Snow seems to be pleased with the cold air and the soggy earth under our feet, so I follow along without protest.

There is something comforting about it, despite the chill in my bones. The companionable silence. The proximity. It’s becoming familiar.

Pathetic, to be so maudlin over merely walking alongside him.

I love it.

Our serenity is interrupted when my phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I consider ignoring it—doubly so when Snow shoots me a look—but then it keeps buzzing. It’s a call, not a text.

I stop, pulling my mobile out, and we both glare at the screen.

“You— Did you save the Mage in your phone as _‘Facist_ ’?” Snow squawks.

“You’re surprised?” I hold it out for him. “Try not to break it this time.”

Snow frowns and snatches the phone from my hand. As he fumbles his way through a “Hullo, sir,” he stalks off, putting space between us.

I try not to take it as ominously as possible.

I don’t succeed.

Snow continues to trudge along, and I’m careful to follow far enough behind that I can’t hear most of their discussion. Snow’s sputtering is audible on and off, though that hardly counts as eavesdropping given his portion of the conversation consists mostly of _“um”_ s and _“well”_ s. I am admittedly curious to know what they’re discussing, but not enough to encroach on the space he’s demanding. As if I need to give him any more of a reason to distrust me—I’m sure he’s going to end the call in quite a snit even so.

I try not to dwell on how much the idea of that hurts me.

Another thing I don’t succeed at.

Snow is scrunched and shrugging and gesturing and tugging at his hair. The pantomime hurts, each expression of his unease causing a constriction in my chest. It leaves me aching. Wallowing.

_What is he telling you, Simon?_

_Why must you believe him? Believe_ in _him?_

_What’s the counterspell? What can I possibly say to make you stop following him?_

_Is there anything?_

_Are there any words strong enough to prove myself to you?_

_Are there any words strong enough to make you believe me?_

_Trust me?_

_Want me?_

I take a deep breath—despite my objective, the icy winter air isn’t jarring or uncomfortable enough to drag me from my spiralling thoughts. All it does is remind me of how cold I always am. How unnecessary it is for me to breathe. How I’m merely a shambling corpse fated to live in the shadow of Simon Snow, who’s flustered and red-faced and _so alive_.

Even at this distance, I can smell Snow’s magic—his smoke. It’s thick and acrid. I can see it bubbling off of him from where he stomps about several metres ahead of me. He’ll set the whole forest on fire if he keeps it up.

Wouldn’t that be something.

I pat down my coat, relieved to find the packet of cigarettes still in my breast pocket. I shouldn’t have bought them, but what’s done is done. I caved the other night, and I see no reason not to cave again now.

I light the fag with the tip of my wand, and when I breathe in the smoke, I pretend it’s his.

SIMON

I lower Baz’s mobile from my ear once it’s clear the Mage hung up on me again.

Don’t really like talking on the phone with him, I realize. I’m glad he usually just sends a bird or calls me to his office. A call is weird. It’s something in between—not as impersonal as a bird, but more one-sided than face-to-face. At least when he’s in front of me, I can _try_ to get a word in—he’s got no patience on the phone.

No.

He’s got no patience because I’ve been a stupid fucking knob and have mucked up all his plans and got people hurt.

I don’t throw Baz’s phone. I definitely want to throw _something_ though. Or kick something.

I could kick Baz. Nothing in our truce says I can’t hurt him. He’s just not allowed to hurt me back.

If there even still _is_ a truce. He must have broken it without me noticing.

I wheel around. I might not kick him—not sure yet—I’ve definitely got to confront him though.

I don’t want to. (I don’t want to fight—) He just keeps leaving me no choice!

Baz is hanging back like he hasn’t got a care in the world. He’s even got a cigarette dangling from his lips. Tosser. Prick. _Liar_.

“Why are you smoking?” is what I shout at him to start. I don’t know why that seems important right now, but it does. Baz doesn’t smoke. (Since when does Baz smoke?) (He smelled like smoke the other night...)

“Easier to light a cigarette on fire than myself,” he says as I stamp towards him.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Baz shakes his head to dismiss me. “What now, Snow? You’re clearly in a strop. What did he tell you this time?”

“How about you tell me, Baz?” I stop a few paces from him, square my shoulders.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” I wave his mobile. “You’ve been on this fucking thing all afternoon.”

Baz takes a drag from his cigarette. “You’re the one holding it, Snow. If you suspect me of something, why not see for yourself, rather than blindly believing whatever the Mage said to you?”

I growl and thrust his phone at his chest. “I’m sure you deleted anything incriminating already.”

Baz exhales roughly through his nose, then takes the mobile, pocketing it. “Care to share what I’m being accused of this time?”

“The Mage says one of your cousins cut down one of his Men.”

“And he thinks I orchestrated that?”

“ _And_ ,” I continue, “that there’s been other skirmishes like that all damn day.”

Baz pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand that’s holding his fag. Flammable idiot! “Snow. It’s unfortunate, that’s undeniable. But I assure you I had no part in organizing those events, nor any prior knowledge of them.”

“The Mage thinks you’re pulling the strings,” I say. “Trying to pick off his Men one by one, while keeping me here. Out of the loop. Unable to help. Easy prey.”

Baz stares off, scowling as he takes another pull—I slap his hand away. He startles.

“Stop it!” I yell. “Put that thing out!”

Baz gives me a half-hearted sneer, then drops the cigarette, stepping on it with his fancy shoe. “Happy?”

“Not one fucking bit.”

"Aleister Crowley, Snow. I swear to you that I’ve done nothing but share what little information _we agreed_ I would share,” Baz insists. “Do you even remember what my half of the truce is?"

"Yes," I grunt. "You could have broken it already for all I know. So you'd get a hand cramp, so what? Would it even hurt a vampire?"

Baz's expression darkens. "Go ask one."

I laugh bitterly. "How am I supposed to trust you when you won't drop the fucking act? Can you really blame me for thinking this is a trap? Why else would you be doing any of this?"

"Snow—" he warns, but I'm too riled.

"Are you waiting until I'm complacent before you strike? Want to fatten and tart me up? I didn't peg you as the type to play with your food, but I should have known better. _Everything_ you do is a plot! Of course this is, too! Of course you’d turn something nice between us into a way to kill me!"

I don't get a chance to take in all the details of Baz's disgusted expression because suddenly my whole world goes white-hot with pain.

" _Fuck!_ " I howl, gripping my right arm to me. It's seizing, all the muscles clenched tight, my fingers and hand locked up beyond my control. "Goddammit! Mother fuck!" It's blindingly painful. I keep waiting for it to ease up a bit, but every time I manage to suck in a breath, a fresh wave of cramping pain knocks the wind out of me again.

I can hear Baz heave a sigh. Fuck him, fuck all of this! I squeeze my aching right hand in my left one and stalk away from him. Maybe massaging it will help, maybe distance will help—

It doesn't. I groan and crouch down, too agonized to go any further. Rubbing only seems to make it worse, too.

"As you can see," I hear Baz call from where he stands, "I upheld my end."

"Fuck you!" It comes out more pained sounding than I'd like.

Baz is silent then. Or maybe I can't hear him over my pounding heart and whines of pain. I take it back—this is _not_ just a simple hand cramp. It's brutal.

How long will it last? I can't remember. I can hardly think at all. Where's Baz? Is he still here? He would know. Would he tell me? Would he help?

He might do. Since apparently— _"mother of Morgana!"_ —he's been doing right by me this whole time. For some reason. A reason that clearly isn't ‘plotting’.

"Baz?" I croak.

"Yes, Snow?"

He's still here—there—a few paces away. Just watching me, the arsehole.

I curse again.

"Do you want help?" Baz offers over my blustering.

"Yes." I hate this. I sound pathetic. But it's my own fault—I did this. I'm the one that's fucked up every step of the way since Saturday morning. For everyone. "Please," I moan. "Please come here."

Baz's answer is a crystal clear "No."

I'm boggled by it so hard that despite the pain I’m able to whip my head around and glare at him.

Baz is standing there, a dark pillar amongst the trees.

"If you want me," Baz calls, “come to me. No more running, Snow. It's not getting you anywhere.”

Prick.

He's a _colossal_ prick.

And he's _right_.

I push myself to my feet and trudge back to Baz, cradling my spasming arm to my chest. I stop right in front of him.

Baz offers his right hand. I give him mine and don't look away from his shark-grey eyes. My hand is so fucked, I can barely feel his fingers around me or the tap of his wand.

" **I forgive you** ," Baz intones, voice firm and steady and laced with magic.

The change is immediate: a sweep of Baz's fiery magic, burning me free of pain. I close my eyes and sob with relief.

I need a long moment to just breathe. Baz doesn't say anything, doesn't move, doesn't let go of me.

Eventually, I withdraw my hand from his. Baz immediately stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you,” I mutter, staring down at our feet.

“Are you done having a tantrum?”

I grind my teeth. “Yeah,” I grunt.

“Good,” Baz says. His voice is clipped. He’s radiating barely contained hostility.

I can’t blame him. He’s right—as always. He’s been respectful of the truce. He’s been downright friendly. _Lovely_ , even. And I’ve been the same as usual—hot-headed and accusatory.

It’s just…I’ve got no idea how to wrestle with the idea of Baz not being the bad guy. _My_ bad guy.

My head’s full of static again.

_If Baz isn’t my enemy, what is he? My friend?_

A bitter thought comes through the static:

_My boyfriend._

I groan and rub at my forehead. “Are we done here?”

“Done with what?” Baz’s words are sharp. When I look up at him, his eyes are sharp too.

“With—with being angry at each other.”

Baz curls his lip in this specific way. I’ve come to recognize what it is. What it means. He’s not just angry. He’s hurt. “That’s undecided.”

“You said you forgive me,” I point out.

“That was a spell.”

“Spells need intonation and intention.”

Baz scowls. “Not wanting you in physical pain was intention enough,” he spits. “That doesn’t mean I’m not cross with you.”

“C’mon.” I jut my chin at him. “I’m apologizing!”

“Are you?” Baz sneers. “I seem to have missed those words.”

“I’m sorry,” I say through my teeth.

“Intonation and intention, Snow.”

“I’m sorry!” I shout. “I’m sorry that it’s hard for me to think of you as anything other than a vampire!” Baz flinches, and I do also. I immediately groan and plant my hand over my face. “I’m sorry....”

“Obviously. _Not_ ,” Baz snarls.

“I _am_.” I look at him and hope he can see the guilt burning it’s way up from my stomach. The earnestness expanding in my chest. “I— It’s just— You—”

I’m a shit mage. Intonation never comes when I need it, and the only intention I know how to voice to Baz is cruelty. I thought that’s all he could voice to me, too. I was wrong. I’m always wrong—

But thank snakes I’m also stubborn as a mule. Not too stubborn to admit my mistake—rather, stubborn enough to force out the apology despite my inept mouth.

“I’m sorry. You’re not just a dark creature,” I finally manage.

“Then what am I?” he hisses.

“You…you’re Baz,” I say. “My roommate. You’re…you’re just a boy.”

The anger in Baz’s expression melts away until all that’s left is anguish. “Then start treating me like one,” he whispers.

_Fuck._

I don’t know what to say to that.

Baz turns on his heel and stalks away.

“Baz!”

“Just fuck off for a while, will you?”

I sigh and tilt my head back to look at the overcast sky visible through the bare trees. “Why can’t we ever get this right?” I mutter.

Baz stops. I flush, realizing he heard me. I manage to hold his gaze when he turns to stare.

“Is that what you want?” he calls out. “To get it right?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. I can hardly hear my own voice over the breeze and the soft rustling of the branches and brush. Baz can hear me just fine, though.

He stares at me. He doesn’t move. My stomach gets all knotted up.

I have to be the one to go to him.

“What about you?” I ask as I take a few unsteady steps forward. “Do you want—? I mean. Can we—?”

Baz lets me come right up to him. I’m close, but the arm’s reach between us feels massive. He’s scowling. “What, Snow?”

I bite my lip. “Can we try again? Can I get another shot? At…at not being a complete fuck up?”

“But that’s the one thing you’re good at,” Baz says. I grimace, but I deserved that. I’ve been a complete tit to him. Baz sighs. “Yes, though. We can…try again.”

“Really?”

Baz offers up his right hand, looking entirely put out. “C’mon, then. A new truce.”

I snatch up his hand. “Same conditions?”

Baz clears his throat. “I will not deliberately hurt you or lie to you, and you will not accuse me of doing either of those things.” His voice is too steady—cautious.

“And I won’t deliberately hurt you or lie to you,” I quickly add on.

Baz hesitates, then nods. “And I won’t accuse you of doing either of those things,” he amends. For fairness, I guess.

He taps his wand to our hands and casts the spell anew.

I stare at my hand once he releases it. I flex it. How can his magic be so brilliantly warm when he’s so cold?

“Thank you,” I say. “I really do want to get it right this time.”

The corner of Baz’s lips quirk up for just a heartbeat. “Careful,” he reminds. “No lying.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not. Obviously.”

Baz takes a breath. “Snow, I—”

“Simon.”

“What?”

“You called me Simon when you talked to your dad.”

“I wanted him to note my sincerity.”

“But you’re insincere now?”

Baz reclaims my hand, curling his fingers around my wrist faster than I can blink. “I’m more sincere than I ought to be.”

I stare down at his long, pale fingers. They really are so cold. He should be wearing gloves. Surely he has gloves. Perhaps he didn’t grab them in time before we had to run away from the Mage.

“What if—” I croak. “What if the Mage goes through with the raid? What will we do?”

“We’ll fight.”

I try to pull my hand back, but Baz holds on tight.

“Together,” he rushes to add.

“That’s worse.” When I pull again, he lets me go. I back away—start pacing. All new anxieties rush forth, buzzing in my head. “I don’t want to fight the Mage! I don’t— Fuck....” I tear at my hair.

“Simon—”

“Shut up,” I snap—then immediately feel bad about it. I groan. “None of this makes sense. I’ve got no idea what’s going on any more. Everything’s a mess! Why is everything so fucking confusing?”

I can feel Baz’s eyes trailing me. I can’t bear to look at whatever expression he’s sporting.

“You’ve realized your mentor is doing things you don’t agree with,” Baz says slowly, like he’s afraid to spook me. “And you’ve realized your enemy maybe isn’t quite as evil as you thought. When...when he tries.” He swallows. “When he lets himself try.”

I stop pacing. I stare at him. Baz’s expression is pinched…but open. Hopeful, maybe. Hopeful that I really won’t fuck this up again.

“Everything’s a mess,” I repeat. I sound tired this time, not manic. “It’s becoming a bigger and bigger mess.”

“Because you’re not facing it,” Baz says. “You’re running. And you can keep running. I’ll run with you, if you want. I’ll run with you to the ends of the earth, if it will make you happy.” Baz’s eyes are focused, drawing me in. I can’t look away. “But I don’t think it will.”

I walk back to him, one step at a time. “Why?” I ask.

Baz’s brow furrows. “Because it’s not your style. You fight things head-on.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Why would you do that? Run with me that far.”

I can see the muscle in Baz’s jaw working. He flicks his gaze away from me. “I,”—he licks his lips—“I want you to be happy.”

“You’re not lying....”

“I swore an oath.”

My throat feels tight. There are things I want to ask ( _“Since when have you ever cared about my happiness?”, “is this the real you?”, “what is any of this?”, “will we ever have this again, once Christmas is over?”_ ), but it’s all so jumbled in my head and in my chest, I know it could never come out of my mouth no matter how stubbornly I try.

Most frightening of all, I can’t begin to imagine a single answer to any of those questions. My brain’s just a hole, filled only with static.

_Don’t think._

_Can’t_ think.

Baz tenses when I take his hand. He’s too cold. It burns me.

“Let’s go inside,” I say.

Baz is staring at our hands. I’m staring at him—at the reflection of the forest in his eyes and the scrunch of his brow and the set of his full, pursed lips. We smell like smoke. His gaze flicks to mine, and I’m overwhelmed with something I can’t begin to understand.

“Well?” I push.

Baz considers me for a moment, then clears his throat and straightens up. “Yeah, all right.” His expression easily slips back into something normal: one eyebrow up to mock me. “Are you going to hold my hand the whole way?”

“Yeah. I think I might do.” I push out my chin at him. “You got a problem with that?”

Baz smirks at me like my stupidity delights him. “Not at all,” he says. And I know for sure he’s telling the truth.

BAZ

Halfway through the walk back, Snow dropped my hand. A pang of disappointment shot through me, but before I could quite process it, he moved to my other side and snatched up that hand instead.

I stared at him. I felt my jaw go slack. “Warming the other one?”

Snow kept his gaze fixed up ahead. His jaw was locked. “Yeah.”

Now, I find myself having to do the impossible—I stop walking as we come near the edge of the forest at the hotel’s property. Snow doesn’t notice until he feels the tug of me unmoving behind him.

It’s getting late. I need to feed. And I know if I go back into that hotel room with Snow, hand in hand, I’ll never want to leave. I might even do something terribly foolish. (I wouldn’t bite him—that’s not what I’m worried about. I’d like to not have it in the back of my mind though.) (I’m worried I’ll kiss him. I’m worried I’ll let him break my heart more than he has.)

“You go on ahead,” I say, staring at our hands. I burn the moment into my mind as best I’m able. The vision of Simon Snow’s moonlit hand against my own. The warmth of it. Even the clamminess of it. I want to remember it all.

Snow gnaws on his lip, considering. I don’t think I can handle another comment about my vampirism—I feel so raw. Fragile. Everything he’s said today has felt like a lashing.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “All right.”

My eyes fly up to his face. He’s watching our hands as he releases me. I don’t think our touch lingers as long as it does by only my own doing.

“Don’t stay out too long,” Snow adds. Then he steps back, gives me a crooked smile that feels like the clack of a fire striker in my chest, and is gone.

I burn through my jitters by hunting. There’s copious wildlife in the woods here, and it’s late enough that no other humans are about. It makes my task far easier. I’m careful not to overindulge—I get muddled when I drink too much. Blood drunk. Or maybe it’s just the glee of satiation. Either way, I don’t want to return to my romantic hotel room with Snow and risk losing control of my impulses. Risk attempting to sate my deeper, more dogged desires.

I return to the room some thirty minutes later. I’m warmed with blood, yet the chill on my skin remains. The temperatures have been getting closer to freezing with each day, especially in the evenings like this. I’m grateful that the hotel is well heated. Between that and Snow’s own heat, the room is always toasty.

“Hey,” Snow says, as I discard my coat and shoes at the door.

“Hello.” We never greet each other at Watford. I feel foolish for being so moved by this simple exchange.

Snow is in his pyjamas, leaning against the pillows and headboard of the bed, watching something or other on the television. Probably still looking for Christmas specials. There’s room service on the bed next to him. His hair is damp and frizzy, recklessly towel dried. Yet I can still hear water running in the bathroom.

Snow preempts my question simply from the furrowing of my brow: “Got the tub filling up for you. Should be good to go in a minute. I set your dinner in there, too.”

My heart stirs in my chest in a way I’ve never felt. “How thoughtful.”

In a classic move, Snow answers with a shrug. Then he focusses his attentions back to the telly. I’m feeling no such nonchalance.

He ordered me dinner and put it in the bathroom. Because he knows I like to eat alone.

He ran the bath for me. Because he knew I’d be cold.

Because he wants to get this right.

Is this what it’s like to truly be friends with Simon Snow? To have his attention in a purely positive manner?

Crowley, I’m glad I didn’t feed too much. I’m overwhelmed with warmth and emotion as is.

I collect my pyjamas, then hide in the bathroom where I can sink into the physical manifestation of Snow’s thoughtfulness, feel it’s heat all around me. It soothes my aches and pains far more than the morning’s sauna. After I eat, I dip my head back and let myself relish in the bath until the water goes cold. (I could spell it warm again, but it wouldn’t be the same.) (I’m hopeless.)

When I finally will myself to drain the tub and redress, I come back into the room to find Snow still on the bed, though sunk much further into the pillows. The TV is on, the remote on his stomach. His eyes are closed. I stand in the doorway and stare.

I set down my clothes from earlier—I’ll deal with them in the morning—and pad my way towards the bed, turning off the lights as I go. I remove his cleared plates. Then, despite my efforts to not disturb him, Snow stirs when I gingerly pluck the remote from his belly.

He groans and rubs at an eye. “Sorry.”

I turn off the TV. The room is swallowed by darkness. I can still see Snow clearly. “It’s all right,” I murmur. “Go to sleep.” He begins pushing himself up, not having caught my meaning. “Stay,” I urge softly. “I’ll take the sofa tonight.”

“Nah, you’re taller than me, you’ll never fit.” His speech is slurred with drowsiness. Snow’s accent always gets a bit thicker when he’s especially tired or angry. Or, as I’ve discovered, tipsy.

“I’ll be fine, Snow.”

“Will not,” is the best comeback he can manage.

Snow pushes himself up further on fatigue-laden limbs. I’m feeling so inebriated on affection that I dare to request another round of it despite what a terrible idea it is. “The bed’s big enough,” I say.

He pauses. I can see him trying to peer at me in the dark. “To....”

My tongue feels heavy and traitorous. “To share.”

What am I doing? I know I suggested it the first night, but no part of me believed he would take me up on it. Which he understandably didn’t. Except…now, he’s considering it. And I’m right—it _is_ big enough—but my restraint might not be.

It’s a terrible idea and yet my heart rejoices when he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, all right.”

“We can lay pillows down the middle if you’d like,” I offer hurriedly.

Snow shrugs. “‘S fine.” He gets under the blankets and settles in.

My body goes through all the proper steps of pulling back the bedclothes on my side, slipping in, fluffing the pillow just right, and lying down. All the while, my heart and head are buzzing with excitement and anxiety in equal turns. I’m sharing a bed with Simon Snow…! It’s awful and brilliant and stupid. And uneventful, given that the distance between us on this shared mattress is only slightly smaller than the distance between our beds at Watford. But it’s one continuous surface which is more monumental than it has any right being.

I roll onto my side, my back to him, and try to regulate my breathing. His heartbeat is so close by. A persistent thud. He shifts, and I can feel the movement in the bed, in the blankets. My heart soars anew. I listen for him, for his breath. I set my own breathing to it, more shallow and languid as he drifts off. I breathe in his scent, too—fresh hotel soap, no smoke.

It lulls me. It feels like a reward for having gone through the evening we had. We hurt each other—and ourselves—and now this is the spell to make it all fade away. It’s no **“kiss it better”** (my heart stutters at the thought), but it’s most definitely magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No update tomorrow, I'm sorry. Next chapter will be on the 24th...!


	5. Wednesday, December 24th, 2014

BAZ

Waking up next to Simon Snow is something I've experienced for most of the past seven years of my life. But never like this.

He's far closer than at Watford, for one. He drifted towards the middle of the bed in the night, and it appears I have as well. Like a moth to the flame.

He's lying on his front, rather than curled in a tight ball. His arms are hugging his pillow as he shamelessly drools. He's revoltingly adorable.

It's painful, knowing I can't reach out to brush away the flop of curls over his eyes. He's so close—intimately close—yet still so far from my grasp.

_Can we continue this, Simon? Can we keep up the act through all those milestones we joked about yesterday? Can I kiss you, so long as there's an audience to shock? Can I chain you to my side, all for the sake of peace?_

_Tell me how I can continue waking up next to you. Not just for the rest of our time at Watford...._

Snow stirs, his breathing shifting. I feign as though I'm just beginning to wake as well—slower, to give him time.

"Oh," he emits. I feel him sit up, so I dare open my eyes. He's staring down at me, brow all furrowed. "M-morning."

"Morning, Snow." I push myself up as well, then out of the bed—I can’t risk lingering. Snow's still giving me a peculiar look as I slip off to the toilet.

When I return, Snow has dressed in jeans and that nice green jumper he has, with his ‘single adult shirt’ underneath it. (It’s a black button-up and _not_ his Watford shirt, surprisingly.) He stuffs his hands into his pockets, gifting me a handsome, crooked grin.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he says.

“That it is,” I say.

“I saw a sign that they’ve got an extra good breakfast this morning.”

“Yes, I saw it as well.”

Snow shrugs. “Yeah, so. We’ll go together?”

“Is that a question, or a request?” I lean in the doorframe and smirk.

“A request,” he huffs.

My smirk widens. “Only if you won’t eat like a barbarian.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says, “but only if you don’t act like a prat.”

We’re both smiling brightly.

“I’ll think about it.”

* * *

Breakfast truly is a more elaborate affair than the other mornings. Snow is sure to try a little bit of everything—including the blood pudding. Nightmare that he is, he waggles his eyebrows at me as he eats it.

I allow myself the indulgence of a hearty breakfast, including bacon, even though it makes my fangs particularly insistent. Snow has been civil about letting me eat with a hand over my mouth, so I might as well enjoy it while I can.

“There’s a fancy dinner tonight, too,” Snow says around a mouthful of poached egg.

“You’re planning your next meal while eating this one?”

“Better _not_ be my next one,” Snow says with comical alarm. “We’ve at least got to do Christmas tea!”

Crowley, I adore this bottomless glutton.

“Yes, all right. Anything other than an obscene amount of food on the docket for today?”

“Well, after tea is some kind of posh party, right?”

I nod. “With live music and such, yes. You’ll have to wear that suit for a few good hours.”

The crooked smile Snow gives me makes fire pool in my belly. “Got to give you your money’s worth, yeah?” he says. I hide my excitement behind my teacup, taking a long sip to collect myself; Snow continues, “Let’s do simple stuff around the premises then. There’s a snooker room.”

“Do you know how to play?” I ask.

“No.” Snow shoves a mouthful of scone in his mouth. “Figured you know.”

“You’re an easy enough target even when you _do_ know the rules of a game,”—Snow gives a heaving roll of his eyes—“I can only imagine how thoroughly I’ll trounce you in this.”

“I figured you’d teach me, you awful git.”

“And what do I get in return for such a generous donation of my knowledge?”

Snow lifts his eyebrows at me—I’m fairly certain that’s his attempt at mimicking my own expression (poorly). “Me, at your mercy?” he suggests.

“Oh, I already have that, Snow.” I can’t resist purring it. The flush on Snow’s face that my tone elicits is too delicious.

“You’re not supposed to be a prat,” he grumbles with a quirk of his lips and a kick to my shin.

I kick him back, and I’m feeling just daring enough to drag the toe of my shoe along his calf briefly before withdrawing. Snow nearly chokes. “And you’re not supposed to eat like a barbarian, yet here we are.”

He sticks his tongue out at me before stuffing the rest of his scone into his maw.

* * *

Snow is feeling so excessively stuffed after breakfast, I suggest we take a walk to work off some calories. I am desperately hoping that he’ll dare to take my hand again....

The South Coast is about ten minutes away. The wind picks up the closer we get to the shore, the chill running right through me. It’s not quite freezing outside and it’s not too humid. All in all, not terrible.

While Snow doesn’t take my hand, the walk manages to be pleasurable just the same. We don’t stray far from each other. We make conversation on and off, small-talk that isn’t entirely banal. There’s an ease between us that’s more pronounced since yesterday. Snow hardly even tenses when my phone vibrates, and he doesn’t try to look at my screen either. I let him know that it’s a text from Fiona—nothing dire. He nods, then changes the subject.

We’re okay.

We’re _friends_.

It’s incomprehensible.

It’s too much and not enough.

I’ve never loved him more.

SIMON

The beach is really lovely. Picturesque. The morning light is sparkling along the water, the breeze is light, and the sand is crisp. The company’s not bad either.

Imagine that.

I find a nice spot where there’s fewer rocks, then pull Baz down to sit next to me on the sand. He huffs, fluffing with his coat, but gives in. He scoots up a bit further on the sand—suppose he’s scared the water will get him. I’m kind of hoping the water gets me, that seems like fun. Also really fucking cold.

“What are you doing?” Baz groans as I tug off my trainers and socks. “The water’s freezing, you’ll lose a toe.”

“So cast something to warm it up.” A full-bodied shiver goes through me when I press my toes into the cold sand. I whoop—it’s colder than I thought!

“I can’t warm up the entire ocean, you numpty.”

“Just warm my feet, then.”

“Warm them yourself.”

I dare to nudge my feet closer to the wetter sand, closer to the tide. “Can’t. I left my wand at Watford.”

Baz sighs dramatically. “You’re a disgrace to magic, Chosen One.”

I lie back, stretching out completely, not caring about the sand scratching at my head. I point my feet towards the water and stare up at the sky and wait for the tide to get me.

It’s peaceful.

Baz’s hip is in line with my head. If we both shifted a little closer, I could put my head in his lap. It’d be more comfortable than being pillowed by rocks and sand and shells and whatever else. I keep my eyes on the sky, squinting against the sun, and I think about asking him.

Penny and Agatha have both let me put my head in their laps—vice versa, too.

Feels different to ask that of Baz, though.

I don’t know why.

Because he was my enemy, I guess.

Because he’s a boy?

Because…

I yelp as my toes get lapped with the briefest slosh of ocean water. It’s fucking freezing! Obviously! But still!

I yank my legs towards me, immediately tucking myself into a foetal position and rolling towards Baz as some garbled string of curses out of Penny’s repertoire falls out of my mouth. I’m squirming, cursing and thrashing, and Baz is cackling so hard that _I_ start laughing also.

“You perfect moron,” Baz crows.

“Shut up!” I laugh against his hip, butting my head there. “I’ll put my cold toes on you!”

“Don’t you dare!”

We keep laughing, and I keep cursing at the icy cold of my toes that won’t quit now. I curl up tighter so I can rub them with my hands. I keep near to Baz, and he tuts and bats at me whenever my feet get too close, as if I’ll freeze him through his jeans. (I still can’t get over Baz in _jeans_.)

The tide sweeps up towards us again, and we both scream and scramble back, before falling into another fit of laughter.

Eventually, Baz casts **“you’re getting warmer”** on my socks. He moves down my body and reaches for my foot—his skin doesn’t feel all that cold in comparison to mine this time. I suck in a breath. Baz brushes off the sand and rubs his touch along my instep, squeezing, encouraging blood flow. He slides my heated sock on, then sets about cleaning and massaging my other foot. I dip my chin back and close my eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun and my socks and Baz’s hands.

Funny thing, that. Baz being the one to warm me up, I mean.

I’m feeling warm all over, really. Fuzzy.

I feel Baz shift. When I open my eyes, he’s sat near my upper half again and staring down at me.

“Warmer?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He’s backlit by the sun like this. The collar of his peacoat is pulled up, the black fabric working along with his hair to frame his pale face. He looks like some kind of god of winter: dark and dangerous with surprising cosiness underneath his frosty exterior. He looks like the cold winter ocean. Like something you want to dive into, even if it will hurt, just for the thrill of it.

Baz is saying something that I can hardly make out through the haze of watching him. Something about not reattaching my toes if they fall off, I think. He’s smiling, more with his eyes than anything else.

I want to grab him by the collar. Pull him over me so we can both stay warm.

Which is mad. And means we should head back.

I shake my head as if that can help clear the building static. Baz leans away as I sit up and start tugging on my trainers.

“All right, Snow?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, let’s just— let’s go get warm.”

Baz stands, brushing himself off. “Sitting at a fireplace with some eggnog should do the trick.”

“Yuck.” I take his offered hand and pull myself to my feet. “Let’s do it.”

* * *

We’re greeted with champagne when we enter the hotel lobby. (Baz spells the sand off of us first.) All a part of the Christmas Eve festivities, it seems. Better than that, there are carollers! I don’t even have to ask—Baz guides me by the elbow to a set of unoccupied armchairs where we can comfortably sit amongst the other guests and be serenaded.

Baz doesn’t complain about the cliché Christmas songs. Though he does shoot me a snarky little smirk when I bob my head along to the beat or mouth the words. I don’t let it deter me any, and I think that amuses him, too.

Once our champagne is done, Baz goes off to get us that eggnog. I’ve only had eggnog made by Agatha’s mum before. This is much better. (Sorry, Mrs. Wellbelove.) By the time we finish it, even I’m feeling oversaturated with carols, so I can only imagine how Baz is feeling.

I stretch and stand, and Baz follows me out with visible relief.

Lunch is soon. I tell Baz we should keep it light—I want to save room for the Christmas tea. _And_ the dinner tonight. (There’s five courses. It’s going to be _amazing_.)

We take it easy, milling about, grazing on lunch. It’s relaxing. Baz has been giving me these soft looks all day. I don’t know what to make of it exactly, but I do know that I like it.

Who knew he could look like that? At anyone. At _me_.

Is this a side to him that he only shows to his friends and family? Is that the circle I’m in now?

Or is this a side to him that I’ll only get to see while we play pretend as boyfriends?

I’ll miss it, if that’s the case. I can’t imagine backpedaling with him. Not now. Not after everything.

It hurts to think about.

So I don’t.

Around half past two, we head back to the room to change before the festivities really begin. Baz takes his trousers and button-up into the toilet with him, and so I get to changing while he’s in there.

There’s a small mirror near the desk—I use that while scrubbing my fingers through my hair, trying to get it looking a bit nicer.

I stare at myself. Adjust my tie, adjust my cuffs, roll my shoulders. I think I look all right. Handsome, even.

I think about Agatha and her parents. How Dr. Wellbelove would lend me his suits—none ever as slimly fitted as this. How Mrs. Wellbelove would compliment me while smoothing out my lapels even if they were already laying fine. How Agatha would smile and look so lovely, and how I’d actually feel decent about being stood next to her for once.

None of that this year.

Probably none of that ever again.

Baz comes out of the loo, looking dashing as all hell even in just his shirtsleeves and trousers. His hair is swept back, loosely styled—it’s a much more attractive look than when he slicks it all back like his dad does. It still falls into his face in a lazy wave like this.

I like it.

“Well,” Baz says, giving me a slow up and down, “you clean up nicely, Snow.”

I shrug. “You picked it all out.”

“And you wear it well.” Baz strides up to me and smooths a hand over the shoulder of my jacket. “You’re looking very dashing,”—I feel my face grow hot—“but we have to do something about that tie.”

“Wh-What about it?”

Baz’s long fingers flip open the button of my jacket and start pulling my tie loose. Which is good, because it was starting to feel much too tight. “A half-Windsor knot would be far better,” he says.

“I’ve got no idea what that is.”

“I presumed.”

He keeps his eyes trained on all the faffing about with my tie, and I can’t look away from him.

It feels like an eternity, yet I’m still surprised when it’s over. Baz tightens his handiwork with the knot, runs the back of his hand down the length of my tie to flatten it, then refastens the button of my suit jacket. I feel flushed, overheated from the stuffy clothes.

“There,” he says, his eyes finally settling on my own again.

“Th...thanks.”

The corner of Baz’s lip curls up—then he sweeps away from me to collect his own suit jacket and tie, making quick work of it.

Baz turns to me fully once he’s done, jacket buttoned, Oxfords on. His suit is such a deep crimson that I mistake it for black at first, until the light catches on the fabric—he shimmers. His tie is properly black with small, deep red dots that help bring out the subtle colour of the suit.

“You, um,” I start, struggling with how heavy my tongue feels, “you look good, Baz.”

He smirks. “Come along, Snow. Your scones await.”

BAZ

I can’t keep my hands off him today. Not least of all because he’s been so receptive. Him in that suit, letting me touch him, letting me get so close—Christmas present to myself, indeed.

I’m jittery. Excited. Touching him so unabashedly leaves me wanting more, but I can push the desire down. I’m good at that. Well practised.

Snow doesn’t make it easy, though. I can feel his eyes on me during the short lift ride. I barely resist preening under his gaze.

“ _You look good, Baz.”_

I’m grateful we’re not the only occupants in the lift. Otherwise, I might succumb to the desire to press him against the wall and ask him for more compliments. Detailed ones. Which would be an awful idea, I know. A vague compliment from a straight man is not worth this level of exhilaration. But I’ll take whatever I can get.

Christmas tea is beyond elaborate. The sandwiches are a new level of decadent. The cucumber, cream cheese, and chive option is the easiest for me given my fangs, and Snow seems partial to the one with turkey, cranberry, and chestnut stuffing—though he’s sure to give all the varieties a try.

There are scones, of course, along with a multitude of festive sweet treats. Hazelnut and praline macarons, orange and cranberry cupcakes (my favourite), and salted caramel and apple tarts (Snow’s favourite). There’s also a Yule log and mince pies, neither of which Snow and I want to see again until next year thanks to our overindulgence the other day. (I finally tossed the remnants in the bin this morning, once Snow hesitantly agreed.)

A healthy serving of some sort of spiced punch helps us maintain the subtle buzz we’ve been sporting for the past little while. I’m mindful about not letting it go too far—I’ve no desire to be drunk in general, and certainly not when I’m struggling to keep my hands to myself as it is. Still, the bit of alcohol does keep me from the deeper layers of fretting I might otherwise be tangled up in, so it’s not all bad. I can simply sit back and enjoy the show of Snow eating like a slovenly dog. (A dog in a very expensive suit.) (A dog I’d very much like to see _out_ of said suit.)

He leans back in his seat once he’s sufficiently stuffed and releases a contented sigh. “Should have gone a size up in the trousers,” he teases while patting his belly.

I snort, which (to my chagrin) makes his face light up with awful glee. I stand from the table before he dares make a comment on it. “Let’s go have you work it off with some dancing.”

“ _Ughhh_.”

“Don’t you _‘ugh’_ me, Simon Snow.”

Snow pouts at the hand I’m holding out to him. “I don’t want to dance.”

“Too bad.” I wave my hand impatiently. “You don’t get dinner unless we go to the party.”

“Says who?!”

“Says me.”

Snow presents me with a whole harrumphing, eye-rolling, shoulder-heaving production. “You’re cruel, Basilton Pitch,” he grunts while slapping his hand into mine.

I haul him to his feet. “I get that a lot.”

To this, Snow has a cheeky grin. “Really? Who would dare say such a thing?”

“Oh, just some fit half-wit I happen to be calling my boyfriend.”

The blush that overtakes Snow’s face is beyond delectable. I drag him towards the music, ignoring his flustered sputtering.

* * *

Simon Snow has two left feet.

I knew that. I’ve seen him at a few school events, taking step after stumbling step with Wellbelove in his arms. I assumed he merely needed a more competent partner—someone able to read his intention, support him, bring out the leader in him. As he steps on my foot for the _third_ time, I begin to realize my hubris.

“Seven snakes,” I hiss, yanking him to a stop.

Snow scowls. “I _told_ you I don’t know how to dance.”

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear.” I swing his left arm on top of my right and adjust the grip of our hands. “I’m leading.”

“I don’t think that’s going to help—”

“Shut up and dance, Snow.”

I’m loath to admit that he’s right—me taking the lead hardly helps. Snow somehow manages to nearly crash into the other dancers despite my urging him into the opposite direction.

“You’re fighting me,” I snap at him. Everything with Snow is a fight, I’m not sure why this surprises me. “You’re supposed to follow my steps.”

“I’m trying,” he groans.

“You’re plainly _not_.”

It takes some doing, but after a short break, a cup of mulled wine, and more patience than I thought either of us capable of, Snow manages to get the hang of a box step. He’s overjoyed with the realization, laughing and slapping my arm.

Even when the tempo of the music changes, Snow is able to adjust with my guidance. I can hardly believe it. He’s smiling, cheeks bunched and pink, his eyes glistening with Christmas lights and glee. He’s simply breathtaking.

We continue to take breaks now and then, sometimes for water or wine, sometimes just to sit and listen to the expert pianist. Snow points out the dancers who are worse than him, which has me snickering into my hand. He’s also eager to point out that very few pairs are dancing with the correct form I keep pushing on him.

“See?” Snow insists, pointing at a couple where the woman’s arms are around the man’s neck, with his hands at her waist. They’re hardly doing much more than swaying in a corner. “That’s the kind of dancing I’m used to.”

“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

“You’re a twat.”

“Snow, are you perhaps looking for an excuse to wrap your arms around my neck?”

He flashes me a grin like it’s a challenge. “Only if it’s to strangle you.”

I laugh and drag him into the throng again.

We compromise. Snow rests his left hand along the slope of my shoulder, I curve my right hand around his waist, and we keep our other hands clasped together. It brings him closer to me, which I am decidedly thankful for. I still force him into the proper step pattern, but I no longer gripe about his posture. He’s relaxed in my arms.

At some point, Snow speaks up: “Too bad you don’t have your violin.”

“Why? Would you be suggesting I play a duet with the pianist?”

Snow shrugs, ruining his form further. “Sure.”

“He’s a professional, Snow.”

“You’re plenty good.”

I give him a coy smile. “Oh? When have you ever heard me play?”

Snow averts his gaze sheepishly. “Ah. Um. Hm.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I drawl. “You’re always skulking around outside the practice room.”

Snow grunts in complaint—and then further, when I spin us. He manages not to step on me. “H-how would you know?”

“I have my ways.”

“Like what?” Snow cocks his head, eyeing me with markedly playful suspicion. “Can you hear me? Smell me?”

“Are you suggesting I have heightened senses?”

“Don’t answer a question with another question,” he says, unable to suppress his grin. I feel like my soul is on fire.

“Then don’t ask so many questions.”

Snow shakes his head with a sigh of amusement. “You’re very good at dancing around an issue.”

I smile—I can’t help it. I should have known that dancing with Simon Snow would be like this: fighting in place, mutual surrender. “Isn’t that exactly what we’re doing? Dancing?”

The look Snow gives me makes my undead heart flutter. He shifts, standing a little taller, a little closer. Damn the form—I press my hand more insistently at his back, encouraging whatever closeness he’s willing to give me.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “For some reason, we are.”

I lower my voice to meet his, a thrill running through me at the sense of building intimacy. “You make it sound like you hate it.”

Snow’s eyes flit about my face as if he’s studying me. “I don’t,” he says.

“No lying.”

His gaze locks to mine. “‘M not,” he mumbles, then draws his lip between his teeth.

Morgana in a meadow. I’m going to kiss him if he keeps this up.

What would he do, I wonder? Kiss me? Punch me? Cramped hand be damned.

Usually, I would say the odds of Snow having a good response to me kissing him are nil. Right now, I’d be so brazen as to say I have a twenty-five percent chance.

I lick my lips. Snow’s eyes drop to my mouth to follow the movement.

I think I need to recalculate my odds.

SIMON

Dancing with Baz should be more upsetting than this, I think. For—well, for a lot of reasons. I’m having a hard time thinking of what any of them could be, though.

We’re friends now. Proper friends. So it’s not really dancing with my enemy any more. It’s just…Baz. My roommate. A boy.

I guess that’s another reason it should be upsetting. Dancing with a boy. Dancing’s well gay enough already. And Baz is gay.

Is he enjoying this? Because I’m a boy? Or because I’m _me_?

It’s hard to imagine Baz enjoying time with me, specifically.

He seems like he is, though. Enjoying this. Me. We keep falling into a rapport without any of our usual hostility. We’re touching and teasing. It’s playful. It’s _good_.

Baz has this twinkle in his eye—from the lights, I guess. He looks lovely. The grey of his eyes is so light and clear right now, reflecting back the warm glow around us. It’s mesmerizing, really.

I’m nibbling on my lip, and he’s watching me. I think it bothers him. (Is it a vampire thing?)

Then, he licks his lips, and I’m watching him. And I think, maybe, it bothers me also. (Not a vampire thing, then.)

I think…

Maybe…

I don’t know.

I’ve got no idea what I think. My head’s all empty again.

I’ve got no idea what I’m _doing_. Dancing with Baz. Liking it. Leaning into it.

Leaning into it _more._

Enough that we stop dancing. At least, I’m pretty sure we do—I still feel like I’m floating though. I feel fuzzy and untethered, like any second my toes will lift off the ground.

I’m leaning in, leaning _up._

I can feel Baz’s breath on my face. I can feel my nose brush his—

It’s a very cold nose. It’s startling.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_ —!

I crash back down to earth, the reality of what I was just about to do squeezing on me so tight that I can hardly breathe.

“Snow…?”

I wrench back from Baz, very nearly falling on my arse in the process, but I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, I just— I just need to—

“Need— Need some air,” I blurt.

And then I run.

I squeeze past the other guests and barrel out of the hotel, looking like a right lunatic. I switch from a run into a brisk walk once I’m out there—I pace around the circular drive and loosen my tie. The cool early evening air does nothing to calm me down.

What the fuck was I just about to do?

I scrub my hands over my face.

I _know_ what I was about to do.

I was about to kiss Baz.

My skin prickles with heat at the thought.

I was about to kiss Baz. And then I ran.

I’ve been running a lot lately.

I run and I run and I don’t get anywhere.

As if the whole fucking world is mocking me, I find myself in front of the hotel’s doors again, thanks to the bloody circular drive. I kick one of the potted plants. (It’s huge, it doesn’t budge.)

Why am I running?

What am I running _from_?

My head feels like it’s stuffed with buzzing cotton—thick and useless and vibrating with too many things—too many anxieties. I kick the pot again. Doesn’t make me feel better. All it does is scuff up my nice new boots that Baz got me.

Baz.

 _Baz_.

His voice rings out through the empty mess in my head:

“ _I’ll run with you to the ends of the earth, if it will make you happy.”_

I take another lap around the drive.

“ _But I don’t think it will.”_

I pop the button on my jacket, loosen my tie more, then also pop the first two buttons on my shirt.

“ _Because it’s not your style. You fight things head-on.”_

I take another lap.

_Think, Simon. Think. Make a list._

**Things I might be running from:**

— War?

Yeah. Slaying goblins and whatever the Humdrum throws my way is fine—I was born for that. Literally. I can do that. I’m good at it. I even _like_ it. But fighting the Old Families—fighting other mages—that’s a different story. That can’t be right. That can’t be the way.

— The Mage?

Yeah. I shouldn’t, but yeah. I don’t want to see him do this. I can’t stand by and pretend I agree with him. I want to grab him and shake him. I want to pull him in front of the gates at Watford and make him read the inscription out loud: MAGIC SEPARATES US FROM THE WORLD; LET NOTHING SEPARATE US FROM EACH OTHER.

Shit list.

Of course I’m running from those things. The Mage didn’t leave me with a choice. Short of having to fight him and his Men, there was no other way out. I _had_ to ask Baz to run away with me.

Baz.

**Things I might be running from:**

— Baz?

I stop pacing.

I’m at the front doors again. And when I look up, there he is. Baz is just stepping out, the door’s handle still in his grasp. He stares at me with undisguised confusion—and concern. I stare back.

Oh.

BAZ

Snow is sweaty, his skin is splotchy, his hair is a mess, and his outfit is dishevelled. It would be a lovely state to behold if he didn’t also look like a man on the brink.

I’m worried. But I don’t know what to do.

Snow was about to kiss me. I’m certain of it. He was staring at my mouth and leaning up until our noses brushed. There was nothing ambiguous about it. Which I _should_ be elated about. Except he looks every flavour of horrified about the matter.

I close the door behind me and take only one step closer. “Snow?”

His jaw is slack. He blinks at me. “It’s you,” he emits, more a rush of air than words.

“You were expecting someone else?”

“Yeah.” Snow snaps his mouth shut and gulps. “Yeah, I was.”

He slowly plants one foot in front of the other until he’s just before me. He stares at me like he’s seen a ghost. My confusion only grows.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say.

“No, you’re— It’s…it’s not, actually.”

I sneer because I don’t know what else to do. That seems to snap him back into his body. He exhales in what’s nearly a laugh, shakes his head like a dog, then locks eyes with me once more. He’s practically glowing from the hotel’s festive lights, and I can clearly see the usual spark back in his gaze.

“It’s cold as a witch’s wit out here,” he suddenly announces. “Let’s get you inside.”

What in the name of magic goes through his head?

“Not with you looking like that,” I say.

Snow looks down at himself and hassles his curls further. “Oh. Right.” He steps closer. “Fix me up then, will you?”

I can’t begin to speculate on what any of the past fifteen minutes have been about. Is he trying to act like nothing happened? Am I supposed to just forget that the boy I love very nearly kissed me?

Snow tips his chin back so that I can better re-button his shirt. I hope that he assumes it’s because of the cold that my hands are trembling so. Once I’ve managed to get his collar tidy, I sort out his tie. His eyes haven’t left my face, just like when I fixed him up in the room. This time, though, his gaze is so much stronger—it feels like I could catch fire under the intensity of it. I don’t dare run my knuckles down the length of his tie again. I simply close his jacket and step back.

I’m terrified to look at him. Not just from fear of immolation—from fear that I might see something awful in his eyes. Why else would he almost kiss me, then jerk away in terror?

“What about my hair?” he says.

There’s no disgust on his face when I finally brave lifting my eyes to his own. There’s just that spark, that humour, and something else I can’t describe. A flintiness. A curiosity, even. A challenge.

I want to grab him and ask him for answers. He could evade, but he can’t lie. I’m too terrified by the potential answers to actually try it. I don’t want to risk this tenuous thing we have. If he regrets that brief moment of wanting me, then so be it. I won’t be another person in his life pushing their agenda on him.

“It looks like a mess,” I tell him.

“I figured that.” Snow smiles crookedly. “Can you fix it?”

Curse him. Curse him in every language I know.

I gingerly pluck at Snow’s curls in an attempt to sort them. His eyes fall shut. It’s an effort not to sink my hands into his hair. It’s thick and not too dry. I could do wonders with this hair if he let me. For now, I merely get him looking less like he just lost a fight with a worseger.

“There.”

Snow opens his eyes and smiles anew. “Am I presentable enough to be seen with you now?”

“Arguably.”

Snow smiles brighter. “Great.” He spins me to face the doors and leads me forwards with a hand plastered along the middle of my back. I can feel the burn of his touch through my suit. “Now let’s go play snooker.”

SIMON

Baz is shaky and confused. I can’t blame him. I was pretty confused myself up until a few minutes ago.

Right now, as Baz is leaning over the snooker table to set up the balls, I’m wondering how it took me so long to piece things together. His jacket is draped over a chair and his sleeves are neatly rolled to his elbows and his trousers stretch over his arse in a way that makes me really wish there weren’t two couples at the other tables in the room.

I want him.

It’s a terrifying realization. But I’m done running from it.

I want him, and I think he wants me.

I’m determined to not fuck this up. My head feels clear for the first time in ages, and we’re finally getting on wonderfully. I don’t want to just grab Baz and force another kiss on him—I want to be _sure_.

I don’t really know how to flirt, so I figure we should keep doing the one thing that seems to work really well for us—an activity. The baking class, the archery, the skating, the carols and shopping, the spa, the _dancing_ —Merlin, all of it was so miraculous. So fucking fantastic. It all brought me closer to him, made me understand him more, _see_ him more.

So…snooker. Baz can show off while teaching me how to play, and I can hang on every little thing he does, since apparently that’s what I’ve been doing since Merlin-knows-when anyway. And maybe…maybe I’ll notice if Baz is interested in me back. Maybe I can catch him hanging on every little thing I do, too.

I’d like that. A lot. More than I can believe.

“All right,” Baz proclaims once he’s satisfied with the table’s weird layout. He grabs two cues for us. “Snooker is fairly simple, and it shares the basics with pool.”

I push up my sleeves. “I’ve never played that either.”

“Good thing you have me to show you, then,” Baz says. He tosses me a cue.

While explaining the meanings of the different colours of ball, Baz leans over the table to demonstrate how to aim with the cue. It’s hard to focus on the rules when I feel like I’m burning up with the discovery of my feelings for him—especially when he’s looking like _that_. I have to ask him to go over the different colours a few more times.

I don’t deliberately mess up my hold on the cue—I’m not that slick—but it does mean that Baz comes close to correct me. He stands at my elbow and adjusts me, and I feel warm with embarrassment as my pulse picks up from his proximity, just like always.

I guess Agatha was right—it does make sense.

Oh, Penny’s going to have a field day with this.

BAZ

Snow’s heart pounds faster every time I come near. It always has done, except this time he’s not glowering or flinching when it happens—he’s smiling. It’s taking everything I have not to kiss that lovely mouth of his.

SIMON

It’s not the least bit surprising when Baz has to keep correcting me on various things throughout the game. There sure are a lot of rules for something he claims is simple. I’m either holding the stick wrong, or bouncing the cue ball, or going out of order, or....

I don’t mind. I’ve always liked riling Baz up. He huffs and mocks me—the desire to punch him is still there, but it would be a consolation prize. I’d much rather shut him up with my mouth than my fist.

Somehow, I manage to hold off. I’m not good at that. When I want something, I go for it. I fight what I want, I eat what I want—I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to resist Baz now that I know what I’ve been trying to run from for ages.

I have to. I have to be sure.

The game is a good distraction once I start to understand it better. After the first round ( _“It’s called a frame, Snow.”_ ) I feel like I’ve mostly got the hang of it. Unfortunately, Baz has been taking it easy on me, and with every accomplishment I manage, he gets more ruthless.

Which I like. But also, fuck him.

BAZ

Snow’s a quick learner, but just as with his archery, he’s too impatient to line up his shots. I get eyefuls of him bent over the table whenever I can. And I’m increasingly convinced he’s been trying to get eyefuls of me, too. I take a particularly long time trying to line up a shot to sink the pink ball, and when I finally manage it, I’m equal parts befuddled and exhilarated to find Snow sucking on his bottom lip while resolutely staring at my arse.

I nearly snap my cue in half.

SIMON

The fucker wipes the floor with me over three more frames. Now I _do_ want to punch him more than kiss him.

“Ugh,” I groan, slapping my cue down while he sinks the final black ball. “Of course you’re bloody brilliant at this, too. I bet you even have a table in your house, you tosser.”

Baz gives me a cool smirk that makes my gut clench. “I don’t, in fact. Dev does, though.”

I grimace. “ _Dev_.”

Baz looks amused at that. “My, Snow. Who knew you had such discerning taste that even a Grimm would be so beneath you.”

“Yeah, well.” I eye my cue on the table and wonder if I want to bother with another frame. “I guess I’m doomed to only appreciate Pitches, yeah?”

It all happens very quickly after that: Baz slips behind me, bracketing me with his arms on both sides. One hand is resting on my forearm, as if he’s going to guide me again, with his other hand gripping the table near my hip. I can feel his breath at my ear.

“I’m the only Pitch left.” His voice is warm and thrumming with mischief.

My throat is suddenly quite dry. “Lucky me,” I say.

“Keep it up,” he rumbles, “and I might start to think you’re being sincere.”

I lean back against him until I’m fully pressed to his chest.

“And what if I were?” I ask.

“I’d make you beg for mercy,” comes Baz’s purring reply.

“You can’t,” I remind him. My heart’s hammering like it always does when Baz and I are gearing up for a fight. Except this isn’t a fight, not really. (I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat? Can he smell it? Everything rushing through my veins?) And there’s more than just my pulse—my skin is prickling all over with heat. “The truce.”

“Oh, Snow. There are numerous ways I can fill you with regret without causing you physical harm through acts of hostility.” Baz’s enunciation is clear—his ‘t’s in particular are excessively sharp, each one like a bite.

I swallow. “Like what?”

“Like tossing you over my shoulder, throwing you down on the bed in our hotel room, and kissing you senseless.”

“ _Oh_.” My voice cracks. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can feel how hot I’m burning. Baz’s cool breath on the back of my neck doesn’t help at all. “That sounds like a rather decent way to spend Christmas Eve.”

Baz growls—a chill runs along my spine. “Careful, Snow. I won’t hesitate to break the truce if you continue to fuck with me.”

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t?” I clarify. “If you’re going to make me regret it either way, Baz, then the snogging sounds like the better option.” I can feel Baz tense up behind me. His hand on my arm twitches. I open my eyes and angle my face towards his, just a bit. “I draw the line at you carrying me, though.”

Baz snatches me by the wrist, grabs our jackets, and drags me towards the lift.

He may have trounced me in snooker, but I’m definitely coming out of this the winner.

* * *

We take the stairs, too impatient to wait for the lift. Baz only releases my wrist once he has to key us in. He lets me go first—I can feel his eyes on me as I head into the room. I wait between the couch and bed, feeling nervous suddenly. Baz is, too—he’s fussing with hanging up his jacket and taking off his shoes.

Baz stares at me. He’s clearly blinkered by all of this. So I flop on the couch and pat the other cushion. He joins me tentatively, looking as eager and scared as I feel. We face each other and stare and don’t know what to do.

I decide to put my hand on his, since that’s not entirely new territory. Some of the fear in Baz’s eyes melts away.

“Do you really want this?” he murmurs. We’re close enough, I can feel his breath on my face.

“Yeah,” I murmur back. “I do.” I lean in, and this time when our noses brush, I don’t pull away.

“For how long?”

“Um. Not sure,” I admit. An hour? Since Saturday? Always? “It’s just…all of this has been really nice.” I want to kiss him—I want to kiss him _so bad_. “Do you? Want this?”

“Yeah.” Baz’s answer comes out quick and thready.

“For how long?”

“Always,” he says. There’s no hesitation.

Oh. Baz. _Baz_.

My heart’s in my throat. I’m going to die if I don’t kiss him—

“Baz—”

And then _he_ kisses _me_.

BAZ

I never imagined that kissing Simon Snow could be like this, not _really_. Not in any of my more “realistic” fantasies. Those always involved angry kisses or bloody kisses or woefully non-consensual kisses. The idea of having a warm, leisurely, _mutual_ kiss with him is…well.

It’s a bloody Christmas miracle, isn’t it?

The kiss is all slow, insistent presses of our lips. I’m entirely out of my element, which is fine, because despite not being the one to initiate, Simon seems to be more than eager to lead the way. That is, until he’s suddenly smiling too much to continue.

“What?” I complain.

“Nothing.” He slips a hand into my hair. It feels extraordinary. Simon’s smile goes all lopsided. He kisses me again, briefly. “Feels good,” he says against my mouth, before kissing me properly.

I lean into him, into his brilliant kissing, and then lean back. “Better than with Wellbelove?”

Snow pulls back even further, blinking at me. His eyebrows scrunch together. “Are you trying to be an arse?”

I clear my throat. “No, actually....”

He scoffs but then holds me by the back of the neck and goes right back to kissing me. It’s all too brief—he’s talking again: “Yeah, better.”

An embarrassing sound falls out of me. I shove my mouth against his in hopes that I won’t make it again—and because I _can_.

Crowley, I have no idea if this is truly a good kiss, but it’s _a good kiss_. His hands are always moving, on my neck and jaw and in my hair, and mine are at his waist, my fingers hooking into his shirt. We’re twisted to face each other on the sofa, his one leg tucked between us, unable to get close enough. Between my hands and how he’s crowding me with his upper body more and more, his shirt is almost entirely untucked. I’m perhaps a little too flustered by the tease of his warm stripe of skin under my hands. This time when I feel him up, it’s not under duress, and I can truly appreciate it.

Snow breaks the kiss with a soft sound from my wandering hands. “What about you?” he says.

“What?” I can’t recall what we were last talking about.

“Is it…does it feel better?” Snow asks. “Than…whatever other kissing you’ve done.”

“Snow,”—I cock an eyebrow at him—“the only other kiss I’ve had was a few days ago with _you_.” He flushes beautifully. “And given the entire basis of that kiss was to infuriate the Mage…I’d have to say this one might not hold up.”

“You’re such a prick,” Snow growls, shoving at me—but he’s grinning. And _I’m_ grinning. And it’s all so entirely unfathomable. And then, to make the beautiful ache of it even more potent, Snow keeps on manhandling me until my shoulders are pressed into the back of the couch while he scrambles his way into my lap.

“I am,” I agree, far more breathless than I’d like to admit. “But since when does that make you straddle me, Snow?”

He smirks down at me. (I’m sure that thrills him. Me being beneath him for once.) “Since I realized why I’ve been obsessed with you for so long.” He kisses me once, hard. “Since I realized it’s you I’ve been running from these past few days—how you make me feel. How you’ve always made me feel.” He threads his hands into my hair, and I melt. “Since I realized that the idea of you dying made me _need_ to kiss you…need to keep you safe.” He nudges our noses together and whispers my name against my lips before kissing me fully once more.

I hold him to me as tight as I dare and kiss him as deeply as I want. Like in everything else between us, Snow gives it back to me in spades. He kisses me with such sincerity that even without the truce I would be powerless to doubt his feelings.

Simon Snow wants me. Wants me here, with him, safe in his arms. It’s a present I don’t deserve, yet nothing could ever make me turn it down.

When he breaks the kiss for air, I dip my head forward to kiss at the mole on his cheek that I so love. And the next time we break, I kiss the mole above his left eye. After that, it’s the one under his ear. And by then we’ve been kissing for so long that Snow’s rid himself of his tie and opened his collar—I’m free to kiss the mole on that obscenely long neck of his.

Snow likes that spot the best. His breath hitches, so I trail my lips along him, feeling the fluttering of his pulse. He sighs and curls his fingers into my hair, encouraging more from me—I give it to him. I tighten my arms around his waist, crushing his body to mine as I explore his neck with my lips and tongue. I can taste the small spike of fear coursing through him, but it pales in comparison to his obvious pleasure. I won’t bite him, and I think he knows that. I _hope_ he knows that....

As a further reminder of my nature, my lips find the gold chain tucked within his shirt. Of course I could feel the rattling of his cross in my jaw—it’s another thing to have my mouth this close to it. Snow realizes what’s happened, and I’m not certain which one of us senses the change in the other first. Either way, we both lean back and share a knowing look.

“Does it hurt you?” he asks, voice soft.

“No,” I say. He frowns at me in disbelief. “It’s uncomfortable, though.”

He frees his fingers from my hair and opens the next few buttons of his shirt, letting the fabric fall open further. My excitement is tempered by the sight of the cross hanging on his breast.

“Can you touch it?”

I tear my eyes from it, instead meeting Snow’s inquisitive gaze. “No.”

“But you can touch the chain, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I slowly agree.

He picks up my hands and brings them to the back of his neck where the clasp is.

“Take it off,” Snow says. I must be giving him a wild look because he laughs. “I trust you.”

“ _Why_?”

Snow smiles. “Because you’ve given me every reason to. Go ahead, Baz.”

My hands are quivering like mad, though I do somehow manage to open the clasp. Snow wraps his hand around the cross, covering it as I free him of the chain. He’s still smiling, and I fear I might cry. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then gets off my lap and walks over to where his bag is tossed in the corner of the room.

“How’s that?” Snow asks as he stuffs the cross deep within his bag. “Can you still feel it?”

I give a small shake of my head. I can’t take my eyes off him. This marvellous idiot.

“Good.” He zips the bag shut and then reclaims his spot on my lap. I’m just gaping at him. He laughs again. “What? You’re not going to bite me, are you?”

“No,” I say quickly.

“I didn’t think so.” Snow pulls at the knot of my tie. “Have you ever bitten anyone?”

“No. Never.”

He nods and keeps working on loosening my tie and then my collar. “All right then.”

I can’t believe him. “Shouldn’t you have asked me those things first?”

Snow shrugs. “I figured those were the answers already.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah.” Snow runs his fingers along my now-exposed throat as he leans in close. “And you like it.”

I don’t let him stop kissing me for a long while after that.

SIMON

I’m not sure how long we spend snogging the daylights out of each other. Long enough that we switch to lying on the couch at some point with me hovering over him, and later with me next to him, pressing him into the back cushions. My mouth is sore and Baz’s hair is a mess and his hands are so very warm from all their time spent touching me.

I can’t believe we haven’t been doing this from the start. Well, maybe not the _start_ , but earlier, at least. I should have just kissed him that time I found him down in the Catacombs, drunk and miserable. I’m pretty sure that was the moment where my fate was sealed—the very first time I saw the pain in him and knew I couldn’t stand to witness it. I should have kissed him then and saved us two years of fighting and hurting.

The important thing is that I’m kissing him now. And I don’t plan on making the mistake of ever _not_ kissing him again.

Except, well.

I’m hungry.

Baz has half rolled on top of me and is diligently sucking a hickey right below my collarbone. It feels fucking amazing. (I don’t think it’s good in a vampire-kink sort of way. I think it’s just good because it’s _good_.) (Oh no, do I have a vampire kink?) I don’t want him to stop, but once I’ve noticed I’m hungry, it’s hard to not notice it. And I’m wondering how much time has passed. I really _really_ don’t want to miss that five-course dinner.

Baz’s lips 'pop' off of my skin, then he licks at the spot he just abused. I _groan_. It’s mostly drowned out by the poor timing of a very loud stomach growl.

He stares at me with wide eyes.

I grin sheepishly. “Dinner?”

* * *

Thank magic, we get to the dining room more or less on time. (Took a while to get presentable again—especially because we kept getting distracted and undoing each other’s work.) (Baz did a very good job spelling all the wrinkles out of our clothes.) We’re seated and given champagne to start.

I guess because the dinner’s all fancy, we’re not seated at individual tables like for the other meals. We’re at the end of a long table with several other couples, which kind of ruins the ambiance if you ask me. But at least the lighting’s nice and everyone seems polite. We get a few smiles in greeting and that’s about it—seems like we’re all far more interested in the person across from us than in the other guests.

It hits me suddenly: Baz and I are a couple, too.

I mean. I think we are. I know this all started as a way to avoid the war, but I’m pretty sure all the kissing means this is no longer pretend.

Fuck, I hope that’s what it means.

I want to ask him. Can’t do that here though, not with all these other people around.

The first course comes, and Baz and I both realize very quickly that I have no idea how to handle all these bloody utensils. “Work your way inwards,” he whispers. He then spends the rest of the evening kicking me under the table whenever I start to reach for the wrong thing.

The food is delicious. Like, really fucking delicious. I’m kind of disappointed in how small the portions are, but there’s a good variety, so I’m not too gutted. Besides, small portions means Baz actually clears his plates. I’m happy to see him eating despite the other people around. (He still puts his hand over his mouth, of course.) (I wonder when I’ll get to see his fangs.)

I can hardly take my eyes off Baz. He’s more beautiful than ever. I guess because now I’m letting myself fully drink him in. Merlin, he’s so lovely. I can’t resist reaching across the table to take his hand while we wait for dessert. I know it’s bad manners or whatever. Baz lets me do it anyway. He even smiles and rubs his thumb back and forth over my knuckles.

For dessert, I get a treacle and ginger tart, and Baz gets some kind of fancy lemon parfait that he lets me take a bite of. After, there’s tea and macarons with a cheese spread. And then we pull crackers, which of course Baz wins at. He lets me wear the crown anyway. Probably because he doesn’t want to mess up his hair. ( _I_ want to mess up his hair—)

This part of the night is more relaxed, which means the chatter at the table gets more lively. We wind up talking with the couple next to us. They’re in their mid-thirties—we find out that she’s a solicitor, he’s a banker, they’ve been married for six years, and they’re trying to start a family, so this is their last big hurrah for a while. It’s sweet. Normal. They seem happy.

“How long have you two been together?” she (Sandra, I think) asks me.

“Um.” I look at Baz.

“It’s complicated,” he says to her with an easy smile.

“Ohh,” Sandra coos with a laugh. “Sure, I get it.”

 _I_ don’t get it. I stare at Baz and try to ask him for an explanation with my eyes, but that obviously doesn’t work very well. He just gives me his signature eyebrow lift while still trying to carry on with the conversation. He probably thinks I’m just glaring at him. Which I’m not, so I tap his ankle with my foot. That he smiles at, thankfully.

By the time dinner’s done, I’m more stuffed than I thought I’d be. My heart feels fit to burst, too. I snatch up Baz’s hand the second we’re both up from the table.

“Shall we dance some more?” he offers.

“You know, that doesn’t sound half bad.”

BAZ

We’re dancing again. I’m nearly jumping out of my skin with nerves. Excitement. Adoration. Everything—Snow makes me feel everything, all at once.

His hand is on the side of my neck, and every so often he rubs his thumb along my jaw. It makes me melt every time. My hand is on the small of his back, holding him close.

It’s incomprehensibly wonderful. Very nearly perfect, even. Save for the way Snow is chewing on his bottom lip, something clearly on his mind. A dangerous place, that mind of his. I give the hand that’s resting in mine a squeeze.

“What are you thinking about?” I’m still afraid of his answers to my questions, but trying to talk things through has been our path forwards thus far, so I push through.

“Oh, um.” Snow spends a thoughtful moment pushing at his lip with his tongue. I feel heated with my very new, very recently acquired knowledge of what that tongue is capable of. “You told Sandra it’s complicated.”

“What?”

Snow shrugs. “I mean, it is. Complicated. But.” He fixes me with a firm gaze. “This isn’t all still fake between us any more, is it?”

“Is that what you want?” I retort, even though that’s not what I want to say—not what I want to ask.

“No,” Snow answers quickly. “I want— Merlin, Baz. I want you. I want us. I want there to be an us. Properly.”

Our hold is clammy, but I tighten my grip on him anyway. “You want…to be boyfriends?”

“Yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

Obviously, he says!

“You’re a nightmare,” is what I manage to say after struggling to weed out a response that isn’t too much or too little.

Snow frowns—I can feel him pulling back. “You don’t…?”

I don’t let him back away. “I do.”

“You do…?”

“Simon.” He lets me reel him in closer, meeting me halfway so our foreheads knock together. “I do.”

“Okay, um, just, just to be clear.” Snow squeezes his eyes shut, so I do the same. “You want to be my real boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

I don’t have to open my eyes to know he’s smiling—I can feel the shift in him. “Good. That’s.” He laughs. “That’s perfect.”

I kiss him, even though there are other people around. They don’t matter. Nothing matters except this moment.

Snow pulls our joined hands apart to instead lace his fingers behind my neck. I wrap both hands around his hips. And now we’re the lovesick couple swaying in the corner without a care in the world.

“There’s, um,” he says at length, “there’s something else I want, too.”

_Anything._

“What is it?”

Snow stares at my tie while he struggles with his words. “I want, uh, to...to get rid of the truce.”

I’m the one to pull back this time, our half-dancing coming to a stop as his request coils icy-hot in my chest.

“Not— Fuck.” Snow digs his fingers into the lapels of my suit, not allowing me to withdraw further. He glares at me, jaw set. “Why do you always have to take things in the worst possible way? Shit, Baz, I just— I just want us to be able to trust each other without...without being obligated to tell the truth.”

Oh.

That’s not what I expected...

He’s always doing the unexpected.

I clear my throat, feeling foolish. “All right. When? Now?”

Snow gives me a shrug and smile combo that makes it clear that’s his preference, so I lead us out of the party and through the hotel’s back doors. It’s even colder now—Snow’s breaths come out in puffs of warm air. Mine don’t, which he doesn’t mention, thank snakes.

He takes back the lead, tugging me by the hand towards the forest where we won’t be seen. Once we’re sufficiently tucked within the cover of the trees, I slip my wand out of my breast pocket. There’s a long moment where we stand before each other and simply stare at the clasp of our hands.

I take a deep breath.

 **“The bond is broken,”** I cast. My magic bursts from my chest, snaking down my arm and into Snow’s hand. He breathes in, then out, shuddering.

I sense his gaze lift to my face. I’m not brave enough to face it yet. I busy myself with releasing his hand and sliding my wand back into my suit’s pocket. I smooth it over. And adjust my cuffs. When I finally look up, I find Snow searching me with his eyes. Like he expects something from me.

Is he already doubting me? Does he immediately suspect me of plotting, the very moment I’m free of the truce? Does he have no idea how deep my feelings run even after all we’ve been through? After all the snogging?

I would rather die than go back to being his enemy.

Snow’s expression softens. No, rather…it weakens. Crumples.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like…like you’re waiting for me to hurt you again.”

A sting shoots through me. He’s right—that is what I was thinking.

I press my lips to his hairline because I don’t know what to say. I just need him to know that I care. That I don’t want to hurt him, and I don’t want him to hurt me. That I’m sorry. For doubting him. For everything. I keep my lips there because there are no words for any of it.

Snow lays his hand on my chest, over my heart. He might even be able to feel it, given the way it’s pounding so hard. Never as fast as his own—never as lively—but pounding all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“So am I,” I whisper back.

Ah. I suppose those are the words.

I settle my hands on his hips, and he kisses me. It’s freezing, but his mouth is warm, which means soon my own is as well. Not so much the rest of me, though. When Snow reaches up to press his fingers into my hair, he jumps at the coldness of my ears.

“You’re frozen,” he declares, pulling back. “Let’s go in.”

“I should…,” I trail off, flicking my gaze towards the depths of the forest.

Snow nods. “Right. Be quick. I’ll wait for you by the back entrance.”

* * *

When I return from my hunt, I’m greeted with Snow’s beaming smile, more luminous than the lights. He touches my cheek like last time, noticeably relieved by my new warmth. He gives the other cheek a kiss, then drags me inside.

We sit at the bar and have a drink. We chat and laugh and make eyes at each other. He becomes every flavour of flustered, including sputtering on his lager, when I skim the toe of my shoe up his calf. It’s divine.

Halfway through his beer, he confesses something: “I like everything about you in that suit.” He says it so casually, meanwhile I’m left burning.

I suppose this means he’s gay after all. Well, perhaps not necessarily. Gay enough to want me, which is the only important part. I wonder if he wanted me that night, as we sat here and he struggled to picture Wellbelove’s arse.

I wonder how he went so long without realizing he’s (at least a bit) gay.

He’s impressively stupid.

With our drinks finished, Snow takes me by the hand, intent on going back to our room. I pull him to a stop as we pass the lobby.

Snow frowns, so I press a kiss to his hand. “Wait here.”

“Why?”

“I need to get something from the car.”

Snow screws up his face some more but relents.

SIMON

Baz has slipped off with the porter to go get whatever-the-fuck from the car. Can’t imagine what he could possibly need from there. Though it’s probably a bit pathetic that I can hardly stand being away from him for a few minutes.

I flop into one of the cosy lounge chairs near a fireplace.

This is all so unbelievable.

Me and Baz. Dating. Kissing. Wanting each other. Mutually wanting each other. For a long time.

I can’t stop smiling.

I’m still smiling when I see Baz coming back through the doors. Smiling wider, even.

He’s smiling too once he spots me in the chair. He’s got one of the bags from the Christmas market in his hand, and he’s coming my way. I stand up to meet him, but then he’s pausing suddenly—he fishes his mobile out of his pocket, staring down at it.

He’s not smiling any more.

Baz gives me a quick glance that I can’t read. Like he’s asking for permission, maybe. Or apologizing. I jerk my chin at him in some kind of vague acknowledgement because I don’t really know what I’m agreeing to.

He spins around, heading back outside to take the call.

There are other guests about, and I don’t want to make another scene, so I refrain from pacing, even though I’d like to. Instead, I flop in the chair again and bounce my leg and bite my cuticles.

I keep an eye on the clock. Its ticking sounds a lot louder now that I’ve noticed it.

Eleven minutes later, Baz is back inside and heading my way again. I’m on my feet immediately, meeting him halfway.

He’s definitely not smiling now.

As I get closer, I realize his eyes are glassy.

My stomach drops.

I grab his arm the second he’s close enough. “What’s wrong?” I try not to ask it too loudly.

Baz shakes his head. “Nothing.”

That hurts. Because he’s clearly lying. And it absolutely fucking sucks that he’d lie so easily—so _soon_ —after us ending the truce.

I guess he can see it on my face—he sighs. “I mean it, Snow. Nothing’s wrong.” He leads me by the elbow, away from the chatter and music, over to the stairwell. “It was my stepmother. The children. They wanted to talk with me, that’s all.”

Baz lets me pull him to a stop once we’re in the stairwell, alone. I need to look at him, at the hurt in his eyes. I won’t let him brush me off. This is important.

“They’re all right?”

“Everyone’s fine,” he assures, though I can clearly hear the unsaid _“for now”_ in his tone. His gaze settles over my shoulder. “They wanted to know why I wasn’t there. They didn’t believe my father when he told them I wouldn’t make it for Christmas.”

“Right....”

Baz loves his family. It’s one of the many things I’ve learned about him these past few days. He loves them and he’s stuck apart from them on Christmas, all because of this bloody stupid war.

He finally looks at me. His worry is clear in the tightness of his eyes and the set of his lips.

He’s stuck apart from them…and he can’t protect them.

“Fuck.” I move closer to Baz even though I don’t know what to do. “Fuck, Baz. I’m sorry....”

“Don’t be. None of this is your fault.”

I thunk my forehead against Baz’s shoulder, and he buries his face in my neck.

We stand in the stairwell for a while.

I feel so powerless.

* * *

We eventually get back to the room. I crowd Baz against the door the second it shuts behind us, and I kiss him. It’s the only thing I can do for him. Thankfully, he seems to like it.

I meant it when I told Baz I like everything about him in this suit. I also really would like him out of it.

Not like _that_. I don’t think I’m ready for anything like that yet. (Merlin, I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.) I just mean that I want us out of these stuffy clothes. I want us to get into our pyjamas and crawl into the bed.

I hope he lets me do that—spend the night in the bed with him again.

I liked waking up next to him. It felt right, seeing him there this morning. Terrifying. But right.

Baz sets down the bag he got from the car and starts taking off my suit jacket. So I guess we’re on the same page. Which is really relieving. (And exciting.) He hangs it up with our coats, then does the same with his own, while I yank off my tie and immediately start going for his.

His cheeks are pink. “Shall we,”—he clears his throat—“change?”

“Yes, yeah, please.”

I’m not ready for...for anything, really—but I still can’t resist unbuttoning Baz’s shirt and letting him do the same to mine. He’s just so fucking beautiful. And the way he looks at me makes me believe he thinks I’m beautiful, too.

We both clam up after the shirts are taken care of, which means it’s a good time for me to grab my pyjamas and change in the toilet. I take a whiz and give my teeth a quick brush while I’m in there. (And I get really flustered over the hickey Baz totally did manage to leave on my chest.)

I splash cold water on my face.

Baz slips into the loo after me. By the time he’s come out, changed and freshened up, I’m sat against the headboard and feeling a jumbled mess of shy and eager and nervous.

Not half as nervous as Baz looks though.

He brings the bag over and crawls up onto the bed. We face each other with our legs crisscrossed under us. Baz sets the bag in my lap.

“I, ah. Well. Happy Christmas, Snow.”

My ears grow hot. “What?” I gape at the bag. “You—? What the fuck, Baz, you got me a present?”

“I...yeah.”

I can’t fucking believe him! “This entire country home resort spa craziness was already more than enough.”

Baz looks pretty taken aback by my reaction—I’m kind of glaring at him, granted. “Well, that’s not exactly a present, Snow. More like an indulgence.”

“Still!”

“Are you...angry?”

I rub my hands over my face. “I’m just— Shit, Baz. I didn’t...I didn’t get you anything, I didn’t think— I couldn’t—“

“Snow.” Baz puts a tentative hand on my knee. “It’s fine. I in no way expected you to get me something.”

“That’s not the point....”

“It is,” he insists. “I got you this because, for some reason, I’m fond of you, you ridiculous nightmare.” He gives my knee a squeeze. “I want you to have it.”

I sigh and scrub my hands through my hair. “I’m fond of you too, you arse,” I grumble. “That’s why it sucks I couldn’t do anything for you.”

“Snow,” he says again. “You...you do more for me than you know.”

The look Baz is giving me makes my heart squeeze tight. I stare at him and wish I knew any of the words to say to let him know just _how_ fucking fond of him I am. I’ve not got any money to buy him something, and I’ve not got any of his eloquence—and I can’t do anything to help his family. How can he possibly think I do anything for him?

Baz is looking more uncertain with each second that passes. He pulls his hand away from me. “Will you at least open it before you reject it...?”

I slump. “I...yeah. Yeah, all right.”

There’s a box in the bag. I don’t recognize it. I wonder when he had the chance to buy something without me noticing.

I open the box. And once it dawns on me, I drop it, put my head in my hands, and curse.

BAZ

This is really not how I hoped this would go.

“God, Baz, you stupid fucking wanker,” Snow groans into his hands.

I anticipated _some_ resistance. Not anything as extreme as this.

I’m filled with regret and dread. “What’s wrong...?”

“You’re so— Fuck.” Snow tugs at his hair and glowers at me. His face is bright red. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“You...seemed to really like it...”

“I didn’t like it for _me_ , you twat!” he laments, throwing his head back. “I wanted to buy it for _you_.”

What?

My horror at his poor reaction is swiftly overtaken by confusion. I stare down at the gorgeous watch in its box.

Blood-red band. Gleaming mother of pearl dial.

The realization finally hits.

Well...fuck.

Laughter falls out of me before I can stop it. Snow boggles, jaw slack, sputtering. I grab his face and shut us both up with a firm kiss.

“Thank you,” I tell him, then kiss him one more time. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

Snow’s staring at me like I’ve gone mad. “ _Why_ are you thanking me?”

“You picked it out for me.” I try to kiss him again, but he pulls back.

“But you’re the one who bought it!”

“Snow,” I chide. “Don’t you know? It’s the thought that counts.”

He groans and rolls his eyes. When I try to kiss him this time, he lets me. He’s smiling once we break apart.

* * *

I’m increasingly certain that Snow is a fantastic kisser. He does this delightful thing with his jaw that makes me weak in the knees. Thankfully, that’s not a problem—he pinned me down on the bed long ago, and we haven’t stopped since.

Snow was right: snogging each other senseless is definitely a decent way to spend Christmas Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be one more chapter (Christmas Day), and then a short epilogue! I will try to have the Christmas one up tomorrow, but it might be the 26th... Thanks for following along so far! Happy Holidays to you all 🖤


	6. Thursday, December 25th, 2014

SIMON

At some point, we turned off the lights and got under the covers. We’ve been talking and kissing all night, too wired with nerves and affection to sleep. Baz is over me now, braced on his elbows and knees, making me reach for his mouth—in retaliation for all the times I just made him do the same.

I coerce Baz into kissing my neck again—not that he needs much coercion. I’m not sure if that’s a vampire thing (for either one of us, really), but either way, it’s remarkable. I swipe my thumbs back and forth along his hipbones, enjoying the soft fabric of his pyjama bottoms and the feel of him under my hands, while I let him draw all kinds of embarrassing sounds out of me. I roll my head to the side to give him more room to explore—as Baz noses his way to a sensitive spot behind my ear, my eyes fall on the digital clock sat on the bedside table. Its blue digits are the only source of light in the room, other than the faint glow of the moon and stars filtering in through the sheer curtains.

“It’s after midnight,” I tell him.

“And?” He drags his front teeth along my earlobe—gently. I shiver.

“That means it’s officially Christmas.”

I feel Baz softly huff against my skin. He leans back to stare down at me. There’s just barely enough light for me to make him out. He’s lovely. (He’s always _so_ lovely.)

I’m smiling—beaming. “Happy Christmas, Baz.”

Baz does this brilliant thing where his eyes sort of twinkle. Like he’s smiling without actually doing much with his mouth at all. I don’t know what it is. Other than fucking magickal.

“Happy Christmas, Snow,” he says.

I screw up my mouth. “Simon,” I remind.

Baz squints and purses his lips, like he’s considering it real hard. “Hmm.”

“Oh, come on. It’s Christmas, you berk, it’s the least you could do.”

He leans down to brush a kiss against my jaw. “All right, _Simon_.” I squeeze his hips as another shiver runs through me. “But only because it’s Christmas, and I’m feeling unspeakably sentimental.”

Baz has always been extremely good at riling me up.

BAZ

It’s nearly two in the morning, and Simon and I agreed we should go to sleep some thirty minutes ago. I’ve been lying on my back ever since, with him tucked up against my side, his head on my shoulder. We’re loosely wrapped about each other, and it feels like the most perfect thing in the world.

I don’t know what I did to deserve the opportunity to fall asleep with Simon Snow in my arms.

Well, to try to fall asleep, at least.

We’re both working on it but not getting very far. I’m too anxious to sleep, and I can tell by his breathing and pulse that he’s still awake, also.

More time slips by.

Simon sighs.

“Baz,” he murmurs into my collar bone.

“Mm?”

“What…what are we going to do?”

“About what, love?”

He tightens his arm around me. “Everything.”

I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

Simon falls quiet. I can feel his gears churning. I run the backs of my fingers up and down his spine.

“I’m worried,” he says at length, “that we’re going to leave here and all of this will disappear.”

Oh, Simon....

I press my nose into his mess of curls and squeeze my eyes shut. We have no idea what will transpire over the next few weeks, days, hours—but I have to believe that we’ll make it out of this. That no one will be able to keep us away from Watford. Or try to overrule the Crucible.

I have to believe in the one thing I’m always sure of—

Blue eyes.

Bronze curls.

The fact that Simon Snow is the most powerful magician alive.

And…

And I need him to believe it, too.

“It won’t disappear,” I tell him. “ _I_ won’t. I’ll be right there like always. In the bed across from yours…hopelessly in love with you.”

My heart is in my throat. Simon pushes himself up onto an elbow. I open my eyes, even though I’m terrified to see his expression.

It’s soft and firm all at once. Steady. Certain.

“It’s not hopeless.” His voice is thick. “It’s not.”

I do my damnedest not to get choked up, but Snow clearly sees it on my face anyway. His own expression melts before he crushes his mouth to mine.

* * *

It’s three o’clock now.

Simon slips off to use the toilet. I roll into the warm spot where his body just was.

When he returns, he doesn’t get back under the blankets. He sits on the mattress, facing me, and brushes my hair back from my face. I don’t know how well he can see me in the near-darkness of the room, but I can see him just fine. Every bit of his tension is as clear as day.

“Baz.”

“Yeah?”

Simon’s posture is stiff, shoulders squared. “What time do you think it will happen?”

I watch him closely. “When the magic is strongest.”

“Right. When is that?”

“Given the nature of the holiday…sometime between five o’clock and sunrise, when the energy of Christmas morning is at its peak.”

His eyes flick to the clock briefly. The furrow in his brow deepens. “How long is the drive to yours?”

I take a steadying breath. “Two hours at worst.”

Simon sets his jaw and simply stares at me.

“Do you…?” I’m afraid to ask.

“Yeah.”

I find his hand, gripping it tight. “Are you sure?” My voice is a whisper.

“Yeah.” He squeezes my hand back. “I’m sure.”

* * *

We take turns showering and dressing. Comfortable clothes—jeans and jumpers. Simon puts my watch on me, then kisses my palm.

We pack up our things. Thankfully, there is around the clock concierge service—they’re surprised we’re checking out early, especially at such an hour. I’m unable to get my money back for the Christmas day festivities I booked, but I’ve already spent so much, I can’t bring myself to care. I’ll worry about my empty bank account and the imminent tongue-lashing by my father if I live through this.

We wait in the lobby while the porter brings the car around. We hold hands. I watch as Simon slowly swings his head about, taking in our surroundings one last time.

The porter helps us load our bags into the car. 

We get in, buckle up. I plug my home address into the satnav. Simon turns the radio on, keeping the volume comfortably low.

We go.

* * *

Simon has been slowly cranking the radio’s volume higher and higher as I drive. One Christmas song leads into another, into another.... Simon’s humming eventually turns into a soft mumbling along, until finally he’s outright singing.

I resist the urge to cast a silencing spell over the car. While Simon’s no Bing Crosby, he is actually somewhat of a decent singer. He changes the rhythm now and then—which is always baffling—but his voice is a charming baritone. Rough around the edges yet brimming with potential, just like the rest of him.

Even if he were an awful singer, I don’t think I’d have the heart to stop him. Not now, not with the weight of what we’re driving towards crushing our spirits more and more.

He isn’t peppy about it, but at least it’s something. Though, it is rather unnerving to witness someone singing _“Santa Baby”_ with such a troubled, faraway gaze.

He’s no longer singing when Lennon’s _“Happy Xmas (War is Over)”_ comes on.

I have to bite back a bitter laugh.

Halfway through the song, Simon turns off the radio.

We travel the last twenty minutes of the ride in silence.

* * *

I park in the drive, not willing to risk waking anyone with the noise of opening the garage. I kill the engine and we both unbuckle, though Simon makes no further moves to leave the car. He just stares at the house with his mouth set in a grim line.

“Well?” I say. It’s the first thing we’ve said to each other since leaving the hotel.

At first, I think he isn’t going to respond. When he finally does, it’s monumentally stupid: “You go ahead. I’ll wait here.”

“What idiotic thoughts are going through that head of yours this time, Snow?”

He grunts and roughs at his hair. “Shut up. Just go celebrate Christmas with your family, Baz.”

I scoff. “While you wait in the car for hours?”

Snow shrugs and stares down the drive, back the way we came. “I’ll wait for the Mage.”

“You can wait for him inside.”

“I’ll see him coming like this,” Snow insists.

“I’ll _hear_ him coming,” I insist right back. “He won’t catch us by surprise.”

Snow huffs and glares at me. “Your family isn’t going to want me there.”

“That’s too bad.” I snatch up his hand. “We’ve already handled the hard part—they already know we’re dating.” Snow flushes and stammers, but I continue, “I’m not celebrating Christmas without you. If you’re staying, then so am I.”

Snow looks like he’s trying to come up with another moronic reason for staying in the car. (The car which is growing colder with each passing moment.) (He better not make me sit out here for hours.)

To my immense relief, Snow heaves a sigh in surrender. “Fine. Let’s go.”

* * *

We sneak in through the back door of Pitch Manor.

Snow’s hungry. Thankfully, the fridge is bursting with leftovers from Christmas Eve dinner. I warm up the casserole with a spell. We stand at the kitchen island while Snow shovels in a few mouthfuls, then washes it down with milk.

We slip through the house as quietly as possible. I bring him to the sitting room, where the Christmas tree proudly stands. I place the presents Snow and I picked out for everyone with the others already under the tree.

I check my watch. It’s half past five.

“The children likely won’t be up for another hour,” I whisper.

Snow brings me to the couch. He props himself against the arm and draws me towards him until I’m comfortably settled in his embrace.

SIMON

Baz falls asleep the second I get us situated. I’m glad—an hour isn’t much, but it’s still better than nothing.

I can’t sleep. I don’t even try. I just lie there under Baz and listen to his breathing like I have so many other restless nights, and I stare at the enormous Christmas tree with the equally impressive pile of presents underneath it.

It’s a long hour.

The casserole is heavy in my stomach. I’m buzzing with nervous energy. I need to pee, and my arm went numb a while ago.

I don’t dare move Baz.

* * *

What feels like a lifetime later, Baz jolts awake, startling the hell out of me.

Adrenaline bursts through my body. “Is it the Mage?” I whisper as Baz pulls himself into a sitting position—I follow him up.

“What?” Baz blinks at me, bleary-eyed. “No. No, it’s the children. They’re coming.” 

Baz rubs at his face and fluffs at his hair while I groan and sag against the couch, waiting for the adrenaline to burn off.

Kids are good for that, thank magic.

They’re clearly trying to be quiet as they scramble down the stairs, but even I can hear them soon enough. As we listen to their antics, Baz squeezes my hand tight enough to hurt. (I don’t mind.)

“Mummy’s going to be mad!” I hear a tiny voice whisper.

“I jus’ wanna see!” a similar voice whines.

“Quiet, both of you!” That must be Mordelia.

They very conspicuously rush for the sitting room, eager to see their pile of presents. I’m a weird sort of excited—both vicariously and also over getting to meet Baz’s family. (Merlin’s beard, I’m about to _meet Baz’s family_. My _boyfriend’s_ family.)

One of the twins scampers in first, squeaking before she even gets a real eyeful of their spoils. And then her eyes fall on her brother—who’s practically _glowing_ , by the way—and she _screams_.

It’s brilliant chaos after that. The twins shriek and thrash and stomp, throwing themselves at Baz, crawling all over him before he can even get off the sofa. Mordelia handles his surprise presence in a calmer manner by comparison, but she’s still squealing with delight as he scoops her up with one arm and gives her a spin and noisy kiss against her cheek.

“What is going on down there?” comes a woman’s cry from down the hall. “You better not be opening those presents yet!”

The girls yell over each other through peals of laughter, all trying and failing miserably at announcing Baz’s arrival to their approaching mother. It’s bedlam. I stay right where I am on the couch and hide my laughter behind my hand as best as I can.

Mrs. Grimm looks set to faint when she comes in and sees what all the commotion’s about. “Basil!”

Baz frees himself from the littluns and sweeps his stepmum into a hug. “Happy Christmas, mother.”

She clings to him, laughing through her tears.

It’s fucking beautiful, all of it.

Of course it’s as I’m swiping at my eyes that one of the girls finally takes notice of me.

“Who are you?” Mordelia blurts, pointing an accusing finger. “Are you Simon Snow?”

The house falls deathly quiet as five sets of eyes fall on me. I gulp.

“Um. Y-yeah. Yes. Hullo.” I get to my feet, scrubbing my hands on my thighs and flicking my gaze between all of them. “Nice to, um. Sorry to. Uh—”

“Mother, girls,” Baz interrupts, saving me from my stuttering, “this is Simon Snow. He’ll be joining us for Christmas.”

The mayhem kicks up again full-force.

“Simon Snow!” the one twin screams, pointing just like her older sister.

“You’re th’ Greatest Mage!” The other one, who’s got a missing front tooth, stares at me in a mix of delight and horror.

“Ah, yeah, that’s me—”

Mordelia scoffs. “Father says that’s bollocks.”

“ _Mordelia Sybil Grimm!_ ” her mum cries.

The girls look a lot like their mum. But when Mordelia sneers at the use of her full name, I can finally see the family resemblance between her and Baz. I can’t hold back a snicker.

I get properly introduced to the Grimm girls, shaking each of their hands. The one with the missing tooth is Acantha, I find out. I shake Mrs. Grimm’s hand last.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Snow,” she says politely.

“Oh, um. You too, ma’am.”

“You can call him Simon,” Baz tells her.

(I hope that means _he’s_ going to keep calling me Simon.)

“Sorry for just showing up,” I say to Mrs. Grimm. “I hope it’s all right.”

“The more the merrier.” She smiles, then looks at Baz and smiles brighter.

"Presents, presents, presents," Ophelia chants. Acantha quickly chimes in.

Mrs. Grimm tuts—the same way Baz sometimes tuts at me. "Patience, darlings. I need to get your brother and father."

"We're here," comes a new voice from down the hall. A deep, male voice that immediately gets me on edge.

Baz holds his breath while we wait for his dad to enter the room. I want to reach for Baz's hand, but I don't know if I should....

Baz's dad manages to look imposing even while wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown with slightly dishevelled bedhead and a tiny baby on one arm. (Magnus, I’m assuming.)

"Basilton," Mr. Grimm greets. He obviously heard enough of the ruckus to realize Baz and me were here, so he doesn't look surprised. Though, I'd dare say he's smiling.

Baz releases a rush of air and clears the distance between them. They clasp each other on the arm, but don't hug or kiss. I can't picture them ever doing that. Though, I don't think I could have pictured _any_ of this a few days ago.

"Happy Christmas, Father." Baz kisses Magnus' fuzzy little head. "You too, little puff. Look how you’ve grown."

Yeah, Mr. Grimm's definitely smiling. "Happy Christmas. It's good to have you home."

"It's good to be home," Baz agrees. Then he gives me a peculiar look—like he's feeling too many things at once. Which I get. "You've met Simon Snow before, father."

Mr. Grimm's face is unreadable when he glances my way. "Of course. Hello, Mr. Snow. I wasn't expecting you this morning."

"Yeah, um." I offer my hand, forgetting that he's preoccupied with holding the baby. I rub at my hair instead. "Hello. Sir. Happy Christmas."

Fortunately, the children overtake their parents' attention after that. They're chomping at the bit to open their presents, after all. Their mum directs them in what order each kid is allowed to open which gift, and their dad takes pictures (after setting the baby in a bouncer chair).

I stay as out of the way as possible. It feels strange to watch this. Their perfectly normal, happy Christmas morning. I've never seen anything like it—not in real life, anyway. It's like something out of a movie.

It's even stranger because this is Baz's family. The Grimms and Pitches. Old Families.

Some enemy.

Baz seems content to sit back and take it all in. Even with my hand in his, I feel like an intruder.

He checks his watch. (It looks perfect on him, as I thought.) Then, when he catches my curious look, he whispers the time to me: “Five to seven.”

“When’s sunrise?”

“Eight past eight.”

Just over an hour left. The Mage will show up any minute. Get everyone where he wants them. Probably share a few words. He’ll want the timing to be as perfect as he can get it.

I feel like I should be getting ready. Stretching. Swinging my sword around. _Something_. But this isn’t a fight. That’s the whole bloody point. There’s nothing to prepare _for_.

Well, there is one thing I could do.

“I need the loo,” I whisper to Baz.

Baz tips his mouth towards my ear in a manner that feels far too seductive given the company we’re in. “Are you asking for permission?” he whispers.

“I’m asking for directions, you twat.”

Baz smirks. “There’s a powder room just down the hall on your right.”

I give him a quick peck on the cheek before I go.

BAZ

I’m trying to savour this. Being here, on Christmas. Being here with _Simon Snow_ on Christmas. Simon Snow, _my boyfriend_.

It’s difficult to not feel morbidly fatalistic about the minutes to come. I’ve spent my whole life waiting for this day, this showdown. Every morning, I would wake to see Snow too close yet world’s apart, and I would think to myself, _this will end in flames_.

I wish I had a plan. I would love to be plotting right about now. I think at this point, Snow might even welcome it. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to plan _for_. We have no idea what the Mage will actually do when— _if, Basil, if_ —heshows up here. There’s no way to prepare a counter move.

All I can do is try to savour this sublime moment. And desperately, fervently believe that it won’t be the last one we ever get to have.

A few beats after Snow leaves, my father gets up, slipping his camera into the pocket of his dressing gown. “Batteries are almost out,” he tells Daphne. “I’ll be right back. Basil, take a few with your phone, won’t you?” Then he’s gone.

I prop my mobile on the coffee table, using the gutted remnants of packaging from some doll Acantha immediately tore into as a makeshift stand. I set it to record video, tell Daphne I’ll go see about making tea, then sneak out after my father.

I’m borderline offended that he thought I wouldn’t immediately know his intentions.

The kitchen is just across from the powder room Snow’s currently occupying—I tuck myself into its shadows and wait. Within moments, I hear the toilet flush and the door open. ( _Aleister Crowley, Snow, wash your damn hands._ )

“Mr. Snow,” my father says, voice quiet yet firm as he corners Snow in the hallway. “A word, please?”

The spike in Snow’s heartbeat is audible from here. “Oh, um, yeah, sure, all right, sir,” he blathers. “Wh-what about?”

“I fear perhaps I wasn’t explicit enough with you on the phone,” I hear my father rumble. “I’ll be direct: the only reason I haven’t removed you from my home yet is because it’s Christmas and I don’t want to scar the children. Let me assure you that I am more than prepared to subdue you if you’ve come to us as a betrayer today.”

Seven snakes…I understand my father’s reservations over having the Mage’s Heir under our roof, but it’s still infuriating that he’s not absorbed any of the things Snow and I have tried to tell him. Snow can be trusted! He’s here for me, not the Mage! He’s here for _all of us_ , for magic’s sake!

I nearly intervene—which is foolish, because Snow has always been more than capable of holding his own.

“Well, the thing is, sir, I haven’t,” comes Snow’s surprisingly steady answer. “I’m not here to betray anyone. I’m here as Baz’s boyfriend. And as…as someone who can talk to the Mage, if he shows up here today. That’s all I’m here for. But I understand why you can’t trust me. I’ll swear it with magic, if you’d like. —Oh, but I left my wand at Watford by accident, so you’ll have to be the one to do the spell, sir.”

He’s a remarkable idiot. And I love him terribly.

SIMON

Mr. Grimm’s eyebrow twitches—barely. “That won’t be necessary.”

I shrug. “If you’re sure, sir. Was that all?”

He gestures down the hall as way of granting me permission to head back to the festivities. Then he pads off in his house slippers in the other direction.

I go through a deep inhale and exhale. I walk back towards the sitting room—my heart gets sputtering all over again when a set of hands grab me from the shadows and yank me into the kitchen. I have every reason to be alarmed—this whole family’s always been out to get me, and if it weren’t for the Christmas decorations, I’d be properly spooked by how creepy this place is. (I’m pretty sure there was a statue in the toilet that was watching me the whole time.)

The hands that grabbed me are familiar, though—which is such a wild thought. And the lips and tongue that are now gliding against mine are also familiar. And the hair that I’m sliding my fingers through....

“Were you spying on us?” I whisper once Baz lets me come up for air.

“Yep.” He sounds quite pleased with himself.

We go back, staying near the entryway of the room, holding hands. When Baz’s dad comes back a minute or so later, he doesn’t shoot me a dirty look, so I’m counting this entire thing as a win.

I do my best to stay present and ignore the building static in my head. The weight of Baz’s hand in mine helps—the way it’s warm, soaking up my excess heat. All the sounds of torn wrapping paper and delight helps, too. I can pretend, for just a few more minutes, that there’s no buzzing in my limbs or anything coiling tight in my chest. I can stand here while the early Christmas morning light starts to bloom, and I can pretend that maybe—

Baz goes stiff next to me. He turns his head in the direction of the large windows. Watching. _Listening_.

He only has to give me one glance—a pinched, regretful glance—and I know it’s time.

“Stay here,” I tell him.

Just down the hall, I can see the elaborate double-doors signalling the front entrance.

Walking _into_ Pitch Manor should feel like the long procession before a fight, not walking _out_ of it.

I rest one hand on the heavy brass door handle and hover the other over my hip. I wonder if I should draw my sword.

No— That’s the exact opposite of what I should do.

This is a talk, not a fight.

Fuck. What am I _doing_? I’m absolute shite at talking. The only thing I know how to do is fight! Even with Baz—even though I’m completely _gone_ on him—it was still always easier to _fight_ than to _talk_. I’ve always been better at hurting things than loving them.

I jump when I feel Baz’s hand flatten between my shoulder blades. “Breathe, love,” he murmurs near my ear.

I didn’t hear him approaching at all. Because he’s a vampire and moves like oil. Because he’s a Pitch and a Grimm and lives in a creepy fucking mansion that’s bigger than Mummers and his family doesn’t want to pay taxes.

None of which means any of them deserve to be dragged from their homes.

(Except maybe the vampire part, but he’s a _good_ vampire. I’ve got the hickeys to prove it.)

I breathe like Baz suggested. The spiky, smoky scent of my magic is flooding the foyer. I reel it back in, squeezing the door handle harder to ground me.

“Stay here,” I say again. He won’t listen—I wouldn’t—but I tell him anyway.

I want him safe. I want _everyone_ to be safe.

Even I can hear the rattle of gravel being kicked up now as the Mage’s Range Rover pulls up the drive.

I push open the door, walk down the front steps, and plant my feet.

I’m not going to fight. But I _am_ going to protect them.

BAZ

Snow strides into the morning light, his back straight and broad. He’s shimmering with magic. He’s majestic—imposing. I half expect him to sprout wings any moment.... Hark! A herald angel.

The Mage’s SUV rolls to a stop. He makes a curt gesture to the Men accompanying him, then gets out of the vehicle alone. There’s a two-way radio clipped to his belt—otherwise, he’s in the same ridiculous green garb as usual, sword and all. Like some guerilla anti-Santa. He stomps towards Snow, stopping a few paces before him. The Mage is wide-eyed and scowling with disbelief.

“Simon! What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same thing of you, sir,” Snow says. Somehow, his voice is even steadier than when he spoke with my father.

“I’m here to speak with Malcolm Grimm,” the Mage replies carefully.

“Is that all?”

The Mage’s frown deepens. “Step aside,” he demands.

Snow doesn’t budge. “You didn’t answer my question, sir. Are you only here to talk?”

The Mage’s eyes flick up to the open doorway I’m standing in. What will he do, I wonder? Try to go through both of us? I don’t care about the repercussions—I’ll sink my fangs into him before he has a chance to lay a hand on Simon or the children.

“This doesn’t concern you, Simon.” He’s softened his voice, sounding far too much like a father attempting to placate his child before a tantrum. It makes me sick.

“I think it does, sir.”

“I won’t be long. Go wait in the car.”

Snow tosses his head. His bronze curls dance like flames in the gleam of the rising sun. “No.”

The Mage’s spurious tenderness contorts right back into a grimace. “This is not up for discussion!”

“Well, it should be,” Snow booms. “If you’re here to do _anything_ other than talk, then I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The Mage looks like he’s been slapped. Forget whatever presents are waiting for me under the tree—nothing could beat this moment.

“Know your place, Simon,” the Mage grinds out through his teeth. “You are a _child_ —”

“You’ve _never_ treated me like one. You don’t get to start now.”

“ _Step aside_!” It’s not a spell, but the Mage clearly hopes it will work like one.

Magic sparks along Snow’s skin. I don’t know if it’s deliberate, but his voice is thick with it as he resounds his answer: **“No.”**

My father has been standing behind me from the start, silent, motionless, wand at the ready. Now, he releases a heavy exhale. A subtle declaration of his bewilderment and relief. I suppress the triumphant smile threatening to break out on my face—we’re not there yet. Still, I’m immeasurably proud of Snow in this moment.

“Why are you doing this?” The Mage sounds every type of shaken.

“Because this isn’t the way,” Snow says. “It’s Christmas, sir.”

Snow doesn’t flinch when the Mage swings his arm out in a frantic gesture. “This is bigger than some holiday!”

“No, it’s not,” Snow insists. He isn’t yelling, but his voice is mighty. “Which is exactly _why_ you’re using the holiday to your advantage.”

“I must! There is work to be done,” the Mage snaps. “Evil never rests, Simon—you know that!”

For the first time, Snow falters. His shoulders slump, and my heart aches.

“They’re not evil.” Snow’s voice is small. I hope my father can still make out the conversation from here. “ _You’re_ the only one not resting, sir....”

The Mage’s expression twists up. “Simon—”

“Please go.”

“You don’t understand,” he urges, taking a step towards Simon. He doesn’t look up when I also take a step forwards, but I know he recognizes the silent threat—his pulse stutters. “I can’t _afford_ to rest. _We_ can’t afford it, Simon. We must always be vigilant. And with vigilance comes sacrifice. We must fight so that others can have peace.”

“I’m not fighting,” Simon murmurs. “Not today. Not _here_.”

The Mage: “They’re our enemy.”

Simon: “They’re mages. They’re _people_.”

While I refuse to tear my eyes away from Simon to confirm it, I’m fairly certain I feel my father unwinding behind me. Not so much that he’s relaxed or complacent. Just…reassured that his son wasn’t seduced by the enemy after all.

The Mage is gripping the hilt of his sword and baring his teeth. “You’re naive.”

Simon flinches—then he shakes his head and straightens up. “I’ll tell you what I am,” he announces. The crisp morning air crackles with his renewed strength—his raw power. “I’m the Chosen One. I’m the Saviour of the World of Mages.” This time, he’s the one to take a determined step forward. “ _Me_ , not you. **So let me save it.** ”

Crowley.

The sun is ever higher in the sky—paired with the magic licking off of him, Simon burns more brightly than any inferno.

I always knew it would end in flames. But I certainly didn’t expect this.

I didn’t expect _him_ to burn.

For _me_.

For the whole bloody World of Mages.

Simon Snow is the most powerful magician alive.

And he _knows_ it. Thank magic.

SIMON

The Mage looks horrified. Gutted. _Betrayed_.

I can’t let it shake me. This is the right way. I _know_ it is.

“Are you threatening me?” he whispers.

I suck my magic back towards me as best I can. “No,” I blurt. “Please don’t make me have to.”

“Simon. _Son_ —”

There’s a startling hiss of static from the Mage’s hip. Both of our eyes go to the walkie-talkie he’s got. A tinny voice comes through: “We’re all in place. Awaiting your orders, sir.”

Our eyes meet again. I’ve never seen him look so unsure…so off-balance.

“Don’t do this,” I implore. “Tell them to go home to their families.” The Mage hesitates and panic slithers in my chest. “We can schedule talks during the break, get everyone together, do it the right way, the boring way,” I babble. “You can still ring in the new year with reforms, just with a lot fewer mages locked in towers. With less bloodshed. Less terror.”

The Mage opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get anything out, a voice calls out from behind me:

“Listen to him, Davy.”

(Davy?)

I whip around to see Baz and his dad stood on the porch. Merlin, have they both been there the whole time? I’m glad I didn’t know about that—I think I would have been more nervous.

Mr. Grimm continues, “I can arrange it with the Families before the day is out.”

I whip my head back to the Mage. He growls through a harsh exhale and drags a hand over his beard. “Yes. _Fine_.”

“How does Monday at noon sound?”

“I’ll run it past the Coven.”

“Very well. You have my number. Happy Christmas, Davy.”

“ _Hmn_. Yes…you as well.”

I’m gawking, looking back and forth between the two of them like it’s a tennis match.

Baz cocks an eyebrow at me, but is otherwise being all cool and impassive.

Makes it hard to believe this is actually happening.

The Mage stalks off towards his Range Rover, muttering the new plan into his walkie-talkie. I stand there, shell-shocked. It doesn’t hit me until he’s driving away.

And then _Baz_ hits into me, knocking the wind out of me.

I squawk as he hoists me right off my feet, swinging me like I’m Mordelia.

“Simon Snow,” he laughs, “you bloody brilliant bastard!” He plants a smacking kiss on my cheek.

I laugh also—once I’ve got the breath for it. “I was all right, wasn’t I?”

“Years of elocution classes finally paid off!”

“Yeah, a real Christmas miracle.”

We’re still laughing as he kisses me.

* * *

By the time Baz and I go back inside, Mr. Grimm has cups of tea waiting for us. He gives me a firm clap on my shoulder, says “well done,” and then goes back to taking pictures of the littluns. They’re blissfully unaware of what happened—what _could_ have happened. The girls are shrieking and rolling about in a mess of shredded wrapping paper and torn packaging. It’s a scene of destruction—the way a Christmas war zone ought to be.

Baz and I sit on the couch. Both of his hands are wrapped around his teacup, and my arm is wrapped around him. He’s freezing, but I’m still burning up from all the adrenaline and magic, so he gets warm pretty quick.

Mrs. Grimm made the girls wait to open their presents from Baz until we got back. Baz eagerly informs everyone that I helped pick the presents out, which really seems to please his stepmum.

“Thank you for all of your efforts, Simon,” she says, giving me a meaningful smile that makes me think she might mean more than just the presents.

It’s all well received. The girls thank us and give Baz hugs. I’m surprised when Acantha gives me a hug, too. And Mrs. Grimm. Mr. Grimm gives us both a handshake. (The baby doesn’t care, which makes sense.)

I’m kind of bowled over by it all.

I’m also real fucking exhausted. I think I blink out for a few minutes, because the next thing I know, Mrs. Grimm has swept the children out of the room, and Mr. Grimm is saying something to Baz from the doorway as he leaves:

“In case you were wondering where your presents are, Basil, they have all been returned. Your bank transactions made it clear you had already treated yourself quite handsomely. I believe that ought to cover birthday and Christmas presents for the foreseeable future, wouldn’t you agree?”

I’ve never seen Baz look so abashed. He nods. “That seems more than fair, yes.”

The moment Mr. Grimm’s out of the room, Baz sighs and sags into the couch. I pat his knee. “Not such a bad punishment, yeah?”

Baz gives me a rueful glance. “Oh, I doubt that’s all. He’ll surely put me through the wringer later in the torture chamber downstairs. Would you like a tour of it first?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Why would I joke about giving you a tour?”

I just stare at him, jaw slack. He grins and tugs me along to breakfast, and I’m still not sure if he was kidding.

* * *

Breakfast is nice—and delicious. I eat well at Watford, but these past few days have been something else.

The girls are still amped from their presents, so they’re rushing to get through eating and talking with their mouths full. Mrs. Grimm apologizes for their table manners, but I’m relieved because it means no one’s paying attention to _my_ table manners.

I don’t eat as much as I could—I’m tired and feeling weird and preoccupied with Baz’s empty plate. He’s sat next to me, and I keep nudging his knee with mine and trying to put food on his plate. He never lets me.

I know Baz doesn’t like eating in front of other people, but I didn’t think that extended to his _family_. That’s madness. I can’t well bring it up here, though.

Thankfully, after everyone else has left the table, Baz makes himself up a plate and leads me upstairs. To his room. His terrifying, stereotypically vampiric, gothic room.

“Is that…a gargoyle on your bedpost?”

“Gargoyles, plural.” Baz crawls up onto the bed and sits against the mountain of red and black pillows, plate in his lap. “Forty-two, to be precise.”

(I’m less and less sure if he was kidding about the torture dungeon every second.)

I hoist myself up onto the (extremely fucking freaky) bed and lie down next to him. Baz eats. I’m still feeling strange over my fight with the Mage. No, my _discussion_ with him. I’m jittery and raw.

There’s plenty to keep worrying about, but I can’t drum it up. It’s Christmas and I’m in Baz’s bed. Everything else can wait.

I doze off with my head half in Baz’s lap. Then he slips down onto the bed properly and knocks his forehead against mine.

“Can I rest a while longer?” I ask him. My eyes are still closed.

“Yeah.”

“Your parents won’t be cross that we disappeared? In…into your room?”

“We’re already roommates, Snow.”

“Simon.”

“Besides, _Simon_ , they can’t very well chastise you for wanting a nap after all that.”

“Mm…I guess.”

Baz cards his fingers through my hair. It lulls me even more. “I can’t believe you get to add _‘saved Christmas’_ to your Chosen One CV.”

I laugh a bit. “That’ll get me far in life.”

“Further, anyway.”

“Mm.” I nudge closer, managing to get myself tucked under Baz’s chin. “With you.”

“With me,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

We fall asleep. All wrapped up in each other.

Safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading 🖤 All of the comments and kudos have been a wonderful Christmas present.  
> Happy Holidays!!  
> EDIT: I said there would be an epilogue, but I decided against it...I think the story is stronger as it is without it. Sorry! And thank you again for reading, from the bottom of my heart!


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